Bookmarks
All winter you spanked me (and Ann) regularly. Then Ann spanked me at the spring break party too; she showed me how it felt when the spanking goes on, and on, and you are frantic for it to stop and thankful it continues. No, it doesn't necessarily make sense. That was a breakthrough, and through the rest of the spring and early summer you spanked me harder and harder.
Then you and Ann went to Big Sur for the summer. I could visit anytime, you said. The house sounded wonderful, perched near the top of the cliffs, and you e-mailed me a photo of the master bedroom, its white walls framing a huge windowful of blue ocean.
I felt awkward, fearful of intruding. But with your absence my need to be spanked moved from mere urgency to real desperation. I could wait no longer, but I did not want to make what might be my only spanking of the summer just another long-and-hard but fun-and-sexy spanking. "I want a real spanking," I said to myself, "a real spanking." With a real spanking, your face gets all wet, not your pussy.
Or so I thought.
* * *
I picked up the phone, dialed your number, hung up before it could ring.
Did it again.
On the third try I let it ring. You answered, and I, feeling very foolish indeed, confessed.
"I've been a bad girl. I need a real spanking."
"What kind of a real spanking?" you asked.
"I want a spanking that really hurts. And after that . . . I don't care."
"If you want a real spanking, I'll give you one," you said. "But you need to understand what will happen. I will punish you long and hard. You will want me to stop but I will continue just as long as I choose. Do you really want that?"
My heart suddenly pounding, my mouth dry, I nodded, forgetting that you could not see me. But it didn't seem to matter, you heard me nodding.
"Come up on Friday, then," you said. " I want you to bring a couple of things from the storage unit; I'll e-mail you the details. We'll be expecting you at 5:00 sharp, don't be late" and hung up.
* * *
The email arrived on Tuesday and it was very detailed indeed.
Friday finally arrived; I'd slept little and gotten even less accomplished. Before getting ready to leave, I stopped by the Center for Teaching and Learning and was pleased to learn that Melissa got a tenure-track job offer from Ohio State . . . good for her! Perhaps my suggestions on her job talk had something to do with it.
Then back to the condo, showered, changed as directed, and peered out the door, good, nobody passing by. I walked stiffly to the car, hoping no breeze would lift my short skirt. I followed your instructions to the letter, so under the skirt I wore no panties, and in my hands, for all the world to see, were the items I retrieved from your storage unit: a rather short, wide, paddle, and a leather flogger. The paddle could be mistaken for a cutting board, perhaps, but even a casual observer would recognize the flogger as a kind of whip.
I was crimson as I jerked open the car door and tossed the paddle and flogger onto the passenger seat, then swung in, lifting the skirt so my bare bottom touched the fabric. I turned the key in the ignition and jerked the Honda out onto Campus Drive. Careful, girl, I told myself, no point getting into a careless accident when you're dressed like this.
The afternoon was heavily overcast with rain pelting against the windshield from time to time. I drove to Santa Cruz and then south along Route 1. This was no day for the freeway; Route 1's winding intimacy with land and shore was right for this journey. I was anxious and excited, both, with stomach in knots, nipples hard, and pussy damp. From time to time I reached down to feel the paddle and flogger on the passenger's seat. As I drove south, both the excitement and anxiety mounted until I was so preoccupied I almost drove past Monterey without stopping. That would not have been good, for your email had been very specific about Monterey.
Before I carried out your instructions I wanted to buy a house gift. I parked in the Aquarium garage and tied a sweater around my waist so my ass wouldn't be on display if a breeze came along. I rationalized that you hadn't told me I couldn't, so it wasn't disobeying you. I went to the Aquarium gift shop and bought you and Ann a T shirt. It was black and had a picture of white jellies on the front.
I was ahead of schedule, so I went into the aquarium itself, where I spent a long time watching the jelly display. The aquarium houses them in thin tanks with illumination that brings out their shapes and movements beautifully. ("They're not jelly *fish,*" explained the display, "since they're not fish at all. Fish are vertebrates, and all fish have spinal cords. Jellies do not.") I watched the jellies floating endlessly, moving at some level deeper than instinct, finding what food they can (which might include a smaller jelly), drawn toward or away from sun or salt or acid; is our understanding of our lives really more profound, our control more meaningful? The jelly T-shirt was a perfect reminder of our own searching.
I emerged from my reverie with a start; I was late. I left and walked rapidly up the street to the garage. I put the paddle on the driver's seat. It was too long to fit sideways in the Honda's bucket seats, so I turned it end-on. I would drive from here to Big Sur with the paddle's handle poking forward between my knees. I then carefully placed the flogger on top of the paddle so that the flogger's handle would be under my right buttock, the tails under my left. I lifted my skirt and sat, feeling the flogger pressed against the flesh of my sit spot as I turned the key.
* * *
It was already past 5 when I reached Mount Carmel. I was seriously late. As I drove to my spanking the fear pushed me back while the need pulled me forward. No turning back, I told myself. My bottom was aching from sitting on the hard paddle. How hard will you spank me when I'm this late, I wondered, my juices leaking helplessly onto the flogger and paddle. And would that wetness be grounds for further punishment?
I followed Route 1's curves in the rain, my eyes straining in the afternoon light. Finally I reached Big Sur Station and climbed the southwest side of the valley. I crossed a crest and returned to the cliffs above the unseen Pacific. Your directions were excellent, but I missed the mailbox the first time in the mist. It was 6:30 before I found it.
I drove the few yards from the road to the parking turnout and got out. There was no road to the house, only steep steps skirting the cliff. As I started down, clutching the gift in one hand and the rail in the other, I found myself wondering how you could get a refrigerator or a couch down from the road. Suppose you ordered a spanking table, would you have to hire a couple of guys from town to help you lug it down these steps? Would you use it for my punishment? I could think only of my spanking, and even those thoughts were fragmented.
Away from the road noise, I could hear only the wind and rain, my footsteps, and the breakers on the beach far below.
I knocked and waited, my apprehension building. You opened the door, your glance offering both welcome and reprimand.
"You're late," you said.
"I know."
"What did I tell you about being late?"
"You said not to be late."
"Well all right then, come on in. It is good to see you." Control- -promising discipline- -and warmth . . . what a seductive mixture.
I walked in, through an entryway and into the living room. Large glass windows streaked with rain; couch, overstuffed armchair, straight chair, and a long coffee table. On the table were a copy of "Everest, The West Face" by Tom Hornbein, your camera, and four padded wrist or ankle cuffs. Shyly I offered the house gift. Ann, who had been sitting on the couch, took it, opened the gift wrapping, and pulled out the jellies T shirt admiringly. She showed it to you, then lay it on the table next to the book and the cuffs. She gave me a hug and whispered "be brave" in my ear.
Before I could respond, you said, "Over the armchair, now." I bent over the back, obediently. I felt you lifting my skirt, adjusting my bottom. "Very nice," you said, and I saw the flash of the camera once, then again. A punch of a button and the digital camera displayed my ass, looking very large, with straight lines from the paddle running across my thighs and ass and the impressions of the strands of the flogger amazingly sharp across my cheeks.
"You were a good girl," you said. "But you were a bad girl too. You were bad to be late. You were bad to need this spanking. And you were bad to leave the paddle and flogger in the car."
I gasped . . . I had forgotten. I had been so preoccupied by my coming punishment that I forgot the punishment's own tools.
You looked at me. "Take off your skirt, then go get them."
My heart was pounding. I knew better than to beg but I could not resist a pleading look.
You raised your eyebrows . . . I knew that look. "I'm letting you keep your blouse and bra on," you said.
"Thank you," I said, cheeks flushed again, feeling equal measures of foolishness, gratitude, and humiliation. Excitement, too, although I am no exhibitionist. I took off my skirt and folded it neatly next to "Everest, The West Ridge." My blouse was short and covered barely a third of my bottom.
"Don't dawdle," you said firmly.
Then up the steps, climbing rapidly. I would have liked to wait until I could hear no cars, but I knew you were forbidding this when you told me not to dawdle. A rush to the car, opening the door away from the road, pulling out the paddle and flogger, hoping the passing cars could see as little of me as I could see of them, then scurrying gracelessly back to the stairs and the sheltering cliff. Down the steps again, the rain beginning to diminish.
"Here you are, sir." I laid the wet paddle and flogger on the coffee table next to my skirt.
You picked up the paddle, and looking at me calmly brought it to your nose and sniffed delicately. I knew it wasn't just rain you were smelling and I wanted to sink through the floor; still my pussy was buzzing.
"They are wet." It was a command, not a comment, and I picked them up again as you and Ann watched. I found the kitchen, dried them off, and brought them back again, thankful that you hadn't commented on just what kind of wet they were.
"Use the bathroom," you said, and I obediently did. I was back in a moment. In a moment more I was over your knee.
"I'm not going to be easy on you," you said as you started spanking, hard, all over my bare bottom. My pelvis began to thrash on your lap and I could feel your erection pressing against me. "It hurts!" I cried, knowing that you would say, "It's supposed to hurt," as you always do, but not anticipating the level of arousal your voice would convey. I know how turned on you can get- -in fact, I love to be the one that's turning you on- -and I knew what that meant for me, because the more excited you are, the harder you spank.
This phenomenon was apparent immediately. Your blows were solid, authoritative, and very painful. I was gasping within seconds, and as the pain continued to build I was soon yelling: "Oww!" "Owweee!" "Oh nooooooo!" How could this be, how could you be hurting me so much, what could I have done to deserve this. But you were telling me, reminding me that I *had* been a bad girl and that I *did* deserve this. Without slowing down the spanking, of course. I know my helpless ass was in constant motion as your punishing hand came down again and again. Before long I was thoroughly regretting my shortcomings and apologizing and promising repeatedly to be a good girl. This spanking built and built to an agonizing climax as I shrieked in pain.
Panting, ass up, having totally surrendered to your command and your right and ability to punish me as you see fit, I lay, too absorbed in my burning bottom to even wonder why you were so slow to tell me you forgave me. Then my glance fell on the coffee table, with its paddle, flogger, and cuffs. Surely not, I thought to myself, surely not. This spanking was *more* than enough.
I was right about the surely part, for I was surely going to get the most thorough ass roasting in the history of the modern world. But first a brief interlude, while at your command I stood and removed my blouse. Then you stood before me and reached around to unfasten my bra and pass it to Ann, who added it to the growing pile of clothing on the table. Our mouths so close, you suddenly kissed me, hard, grinding your jean-clad erection onto my naked mons, forcing your lips on mine, your tongue deep in my mouth. Mmmmm, I thought, I could live with this kind of punishment for a long time.
But the moment was brief and you released me with a final squeeze of the arm. You led me, nude except for garter belt and stockings, behind the couch. You put a pillow over the back at one end and made me bend over it. Ann, who had been sitting on the couch, kicked off her shoes and lay down, her head supported by the armrest at the end. I bent all the way over so my head rested on her belly, my nose an inch from the swell of her breasts, her clear eyes gazing at me calmly. I felt your hands adjusting my naked pelvis and torso.
"Hold onto the couch and don't let go," you instructed me. I grabbed hold of the fabric and held tightly, my heart pounding in time to the throbbing of my ass.
There was a pause, and then Whack! I felt something hard flatten my bottom and gasped in surprise and pain. "We'll see if eight whacks are enough to teach you to act better," you said. "You count, Ann."
"One" said Ann in my ear.
Whack! That paddle is certainly painful right from the beginning. "Two" said Ann.
Whack! Struggling, I held onto the couch, leaving my ass up and vulnerable. "Three."
Whack! Why were you hitting so hard, why so hard? "Four."
Whack! Ohmygod . . . this is horrible, horrible. "Five."
Whack! I clung to the couch desperately. "Six."
Whack! I held my grip but one foot flew up in the air. "Seven."
"No," you said, "your foot left the floor. We're going to have to start over."
"No, no, please no," I begged, "I'm sorry, I didn't know, I held onto the couch so tight."
"I put you in this position very carefully and you have moved without my permission. You should know better. We will start over again and I am adding four penalty strokes. Now spread your legs."
I complied instantly, spreading my legs wide, unwilling to risk further penalties. No sooner was I in position than the first Whack! of the new series landed. I was unprepared and had to struggle hard to avoid moving out of position, and before I could adjust to the position and the surging pain, Whack! the second blow had landed. "Two" said Ann, her fingers caressing the back of my neck.
Whack! My ass felt swollen beyond recognition. "Three" said Ann.
"You've been a bad girl," you said firmly as you swung the paddle down again.
Whack! Through all this time I had yelled and pleaded but had not shed a tear. That changed abruptly as your disapproval, my feelings of complete submission, my fear of what was yet to come, and the crescendo of pain seized me and tears abruptly began streaming down my face. "Four," said Ann.
Whack! I let out a choking, sobbing cry. "Five," said Ann.
Whack! The pain on my thoroughly-punished bottom was incredible. "Six."
Whack! I kept my feet on the floor and my hands on the couch by superhuman effort. "Seven."
Whack! My hands and feet kept in position but my ass was bucking up and down. "Eight."
Whack! Oh God oh God no more please. "Nine." Ann was stroking the back of my neck, my tears dripping onto her blouse.
Whack! The paddle came swinging in as my ass was sticking out and the pain was really unbearable. "Ten."
Whack! This will never end, it will never end. "Eleven."
Whack! I was crying uncontrollably, not polite "I'm sorry" tears but wet-sobbing-shouting crying that came from my guts and made my lungs ache and my throat hoarse. "Twelve."
I didn't dare move without your explicit permission. I heard you set the paddle down on the coffee table and felt your hands on my bottom, exploring its angry, pebbled surface. I was sure I was blistered, probably with blisters on top of my blisters. The pain was essentially undiminished, it had been unbearable before and it was still unbearable. My nose was running from crying so hard, and I still could not stop.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ann look up at you for a moment and then nod. Ann shifted slightly, then reached up to pull my breasts, which were pressed hard against the back of the seat, to the side. She squeezed then nipples gently, then more firmly, looking at me intensely as she did so. These new sensations caught me by surprise but before I could react I heard your command:
"Come now."
I felt your hand between my legs, stroking my pussy, I felt Ann squeezing my nipples harder, it was suddenly too much and I climaxed, moving from knowing nothing but the pain in my ass to knowing nothing but my body's writhing. I heard someone shouting hoarsely, someone far away. Ann squeezed my nipples harder and your fingers stroked me expertly, helping the climax along, my nose still running, my face still covered with tears, slumped over the back of your couch.
Somewhere I registered that the rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to clear. The room came back into focus. You produced a box of Kleenex, helped me stand up, had me blow my nose, then blow again. You held me. I had no interest in sitting but the thought of lying in bed on my stomach with a large ice pack on my ass sounded wonderful. If we could add a couple of Tylenol and a big glass of water, no, make that a big glass of wine, I thought I might recover. But dear God, what a punishment this had been. Yes, I had had a remarkable orgasm, but the price was high. All my other spankings suddenly appeared trivial.
"Let me lie down now," I said.
"Sure," you answered. "Lie on the kitchen table, over here."
This was impossible. I had to be dreaming, a very bad dream; you had to be joking, a joke that was not funny at all. But you didn't look as if you were joking, and when I turned I saw that Ann was holding the cuffs and the flogger.
"No, no, no, no," I was shaking my head vigorously, trying to back away but my path was blocked as I backed into the window. The cool glass should have been heavenly to my hot bottom, but my mind was elsewhere, on the kitchen table visible through the open door. You took one elbow, Ann took the other, as I moved like a sleepwalker toward that table and the unbelievable culmination of my punishment. I felt new sympathy for Marie Antoinette in the tumbrel, approaching the guillotine.
You put the pillow at the edge of the table, a sturdy, attractive piece with a smooth butcher-block top. No longer capable of resisting, I placed my pelvis against the edge of the table and bent forward, stretching my arms out to grasp the other edge.
"I know you tried hard not to move when I was paddling you," you said, "and I admire your courage." I felt absurdly pleased at this compliment. "But you *did* move," you added, "and I had to start all over again. I don't want to have to do that this time, so I am going to have Ann tie you down. Of course, this merits additional punishment."
As you said this, Ann was placing the cuffs snugly around my ankles and wrists and tying them to the appropriate parts of the table. She then produced a length of soft white braided nylon rope, tied it around my waist, and then tied the ends to the table so my belly was also tethered. I was securely bound, my ass well up in the air, my legs spread, my breasts squashed on the smooth tabletop. Ann brought the black T shirt from the living room, folded it, and put it under my head to cushion the hard surface. She then kneeled beside the table, her face at my level. Behind her I could see the refrigerator with a grocery list and pictures of mutual friends taped to the door. But I barely heard what you said, was only half aware of Ann's preparations, for growing waves of panic were surging through me. I had been spanked beyond human endurance, my bottom was still hurting terribly, and now you were going to flog me.
I had scant time to worry as the flogger came down sharply on my upturned ass. Each strand left its own line of fire as I gasped and jerked. Again it came down, harder, and I shouted in pain. You continued flogging me steadily. Sometimes you aimed at my right cheek so that the tips wrapped around my right hip, sometimes you aimed at my left cheek. When you did this the tips would often strike sharply within my cleft. When you stepped forward I could see your face, brows furrowed as you concentrated on my punishment. High, low, left, right, you plied the flogger tirelessly all over my bottom. Ann stroked my neck and cheeks, but her kindness could not lessen my suffering. Each blow brought me to new heights of anguish.
It was good that I was tied down, for I certainly could not have withstood this punishment without breaking position. With each blow of the flogger my bottom thrust harshly into the table, my legs attempted to kick out, held only by the ankle cuffs. My arms scrabbled madly at the table surface, whether to pull out of the cuffs or grab hold of the edges or just express the unbelievable torture my ass was enduring, I knew not. I knew only that my body was in constant, agonized motion within the limits of my bonds.
Then you climbed up on the table, kneeling to my left, leaning over my lower back, your left hand to my right, and flogged vertically, first vigorously on each cheek, and then again and again down the crack, the strands reddening the tender inner flesh and the tips landing on my anus and pussy. This intense assault was unbearable and forced out redoubled shrieks of pain. I writhed and shook and bucked my ass obscenely up and down.
I was still begging you for mercy, but my words melted into incoherent sobs. To this your only response was continued flogging as you found ever-new sensitive spots for the flogger's punitive caress. "Ann!" I choked out, "Ann!" but she made a regretful smile and shook her head, still soothing my tear-soaked cheeks with her soft touch.
It's hard to imagine how I could have experienced more pain, even though you were working hard and I assumed your goal was to increase my agony. But I had reached a maximum of some kind, and my experience began to fracture, as if time were in stop-motion with the pain and emotion and bondage become disjoined.
As the flogging continued the room changed. The wall and refrigerator door shimmered, even Ann's face became a blur so that it was only the idea of a face. All colors moved toward the black of the T shirt before my eyes; all sounds moved toward a roar, like the roar of the breakers. I could still hear the "Smack! Smack! Smack!" of the flogger and my own shrill cries, but these sounds were less distinct. I became dimly aware that Ann's face, or the idea of her face, was no longer before me. Now along with the blows of the flogger I could feel feminine fingers probing my pussy, but it was as if the fingers did not belong to anyone, nor did the pussy, it was just-fingers and just-pussy.
A tunnel coalesced around me from the outer blackness. I heard sounds through the transparent black wall of the tunnel, but they became less audible as the blackness grew dense and vibrant, a living blackness that swirled around me. The room vanished and the sounds of my flogging echoed faintly over the tunnel's low roar. I am not sure if my screams of pain ceased, or were drowned out by the growing roar in the tunnel. Someone, somewhere, was writhing as her ass was flogged and her pussy fingered, but it was no longer me.
The pain that was once firmly located in my bottom was somehow not there any longer, just as if you stare at one spot long enough shapes and colors dissolve. But the pain was not gone; it was transformed, and the tunnel's blackness was overlaid with my pain made visible in intricate patterns of crimson. With each distant "Smack!" the red forms danced through the tunnel, their shadows flowing over my body in Moiré patterns of great intricacy and beauty. Now the sound in the tunnel changed by degrees from a roar like endless breakers to the sound of many human voices, male and female, singing in exultant, wordless harmony.
Rapture filled me as I listened to this music with the Moiré patterns gliding over me. This show of sound and color captured all the glory of the universe. Sorrow was there too, but I saw that its place in the world was limited, while the potential for joy was unbounded. I listened and watched for a long time as this fluid beauty filled me with happiness beyond words.
The last part I remember only indistinctly. The motion of the patterns accelerated, the voices reached a crescendo, the tunnel narrowed, and my own self disintegrated, fragments spiraling out until self and tunnel, black and red, voices, sight, and sensation all whirled into oblivion.
* * *
I drifted awake. The voices were gone, but visions of red and black still spun before my eyes. Slowly a room took form and the spinning images yielded to plain white walls. My bottom was throbbing terribly, but my soul was utterly peaceful. I was on a bed, my head resting on a pillow. My stockings and garter belt were gone. I was wearing a black T shirt with luminescent white globes and trailing tentacles on the front. I rolled onto my side and saw you next to me, your face softened by sleep. Through the window beyond you was the tranquil Pacific; above it, a full moon shed its magic on the ocean and into our room. I sighed, deeply.
"You're all right, honey, you're all right," I heard Ann whisper just behind me. I turned and saw her lying on the other side of the bed, and she reached out to stroke my face, then pressed her lips gently to mine. "You were wonderful. Go back to sleep, now," she said, and I did, listening to the distant roaring of the breakers.
Copyright © 2002 Doc Tsai