August in Denver

Rainy afternoon coffee on the shitty end of Larimer Street-

The kind of day that always pulled me to brown liquor as a young buck;

Drinking on the boat as we ran the lines-

Slaves to currents and tides then, not weather.

Now, as the rest of the party has repaired elsewhere to

Toast with THC gummies and loaded lollipops,

I sip harsh black coffee less than a mile from

Neal Cassady’s childhood home.

 

Should I have gotten the cream?

Her question threw me.

Still can, but not sure.

Do I usually take cream?

 

The surface of the coffee waves and crests with the

Vibrations of my hand; so I clatter it back down,

Again wiping at the new crescent moon between my

Thumb and forefinger.

My first tattoo-still fresh enough to feel foreign.

 

My dad had an uncle who died on a bar stool.

That meant a lot to him-he told the story often.

He’d also killed five men

But three were in the war so they didn’t count.

The old man never disowned him until his own deathbed;

Far too late.

 

The fucking stories we choose-

The characters we become.

 

I’m getting the cream.

It’s right there-just get it.

Maybe the next one.

Might as well,

This rain will not let up.

 

“…Nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.”

-Jack Kerouac, On The Road

© TDR 2017

 

Cathy Cleans on Tuesday – An Evolutionary Tale

I don’t mean birds evolving from dinosaurs or we from apes-not that kind of evolution. I mean the evolution of thought-of ideas-that happens in a much shorter time span, hopefully, than physical evolution. Like, a few years, or a single lifespan instead of over a millennia. See, ten years ago, five even, I would not have known how to deal with this situation. But…OK, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Cathy hasn’t cleaned for us for very long. We knew her tangentially from church years ago and Karen, my wife, became nodding acquaintances when they were both training for a half-marathon a couple of years ago.  But we didn’t even know her last name-just nods and smiles-like so many people whose paths we cross. I stopped by my mother’s place unannounced a few months ago to find her not home-she should have her mail delivered to the casino-but Cathy was inside, cleaning.

Karen had been after me to hire someone to do our place since she went back to work. I always deflected it with the argument that since I work at home the distraction of having someone in the house…the noise. Whatever. I don’t know. We’d had cleaning people before and they had always been wanting.

“Cathy, huh”, Karen smirked when I told her I’d found someone for the house.  “You’ll enjoy that one”, she kidded. She was referring to Cathy’s “uniform”. For a woman well into her thirties she dressed twenty years younger. Cut-off jeans rolled high, T-shirt and sneakers. Never saw her in anything else.

She wasn’t doing the Daisy Duke showy thing-just kind of stuck at sixteen years old.  She had kept up with the running, so she could pull it off legs-wise and she got the house and pool from a short-lived marriage and a small estate from her parents, so this was her life. Clean houses, swim, lay in the sun and stay a teenager for life. Whatever.

The first few months were fine. She wasn’t a distraction-we were cordial-we’d speak here and there. I’d typically make an extra pot of coffee. I mean, it was fine. And I could feel her getting more comfortable too. Cathy doesn’t clean my office. I’m not super paranoid or anything-I just have a lot of things going on at the same time and folders, books and papers are strewn about on every flat surface. I find something in the confusion stimulating. Karen’s written me off as a hopeless mess, but it works for me. The sole concession was that I would have everything off the floor so she could vacuum in there when she did the upstairs.

So last Tuesday, Cathy lets herself in at about 9:00. I took a break to meet her in the kitchen where she was already moving chairs about. “Coffee?” I asked. “No. I’m good”, she said nodding to a big plastic cup with a straw in it that was no doubt energy spiked. A few more niceties then my, “I’ll get out of your hair”, and retreated back upstairs.

About an hour later she was vacuuming the steps and on her way up. That was fine-I had a 10:00 conference call that I usually took wandering through the house or on the back patio, but with Cathy here decided to take a drive. Ear buds firmly inserted, I pantomimed a wave and headed down to my car, hooked up the Bluetooth and drove around the subdivision for a while.

The call went on long enough that I got bored with the driving and pulled back into the driveway after about forty minutes. I wasn’t sneaking in; I was on a conference call-on mute-with earbuds. So I came into the house only half listening to the conversation going on and walked up the back steps. Hadn’t yelled to announce myself but assumed Cathy was upstairs. When I got to the top of the stairs she wasn’t to be seen in either of the front bedrooms but when I walked into my office, there she was-sitting at my desk, absorbed in the contents of a folder.

“Kathy, what the fuck are you doing?” I’m not coarse by nature but realize that there are words that cut through background noise and immediately grab attention. Through my buds I could hear things like “Thanks for joining” and “takeaways” and “action items” that signaled the end of another grinding status meeting.

She was so startled she almost dropped the folder. Her mouth was a perfect O and her eyes, wide and darting, registered surprise and fear in equal parts. I clicked off my phone without offering my own unintelligible “Thanks for joining today, gang”, and pulled my earbuds out.

“I wasn’t…I…” she looked at the folder which she had dropped back onto my desk as if it should explain itself.  She took a deep breath and continued. “I was curious…about retirement and stocks and stuff like that. I only have a few things-mostly left from my Dad and I thought I should be thinking about it for a while…so when I saw the folder, I…”

“Opened it and started snooping.” I said. Her eyes sparkled, filling with tears. “You couldn’t ask me about it? You couldn’t ask me questions. General questions? Did you learn anything going through those papers?’

“No.” She stood before me chastened and embarrassed. This is what I mean about evolution. Ten, five, hell even two years ago she would have been fired and out the door already and I’d have gone on from there.

Karen is super quiet about our D/D relationship and is careful to make sure there aren’t any toys or implements about on the days when Cathy comes over. She, of course, doesn’t know that after she leaves for work I might stage some hints around. Like a hairbrush on the futon in my office. Or a cane discarded and seemingly forgotten on the couch.  A fraternity paddle that we bought at an antique shop hanging on the back of the bedroom door in full view of anyone who might be vacuuming. Nothing overt, but definitely-noticeable and pregnant with meaning for those with a particular bent. And I was never planning anything-just amusing myself.

Cathy had once taken a wooden spoon from the living room coffee table to the crock on the kitchen counter where it “belonged”. Even Karen had laughed at that one since we had legitimately forgotten it. That had convinced Karen about Cathy’s obliviousness to what went on under our roof. Me? I wasn’t so sure.

From where I stood, looking over her shoulder and out the window, she had a view of the driveway. She had to be immensely engrossed in things she didn’t really understand not to have seen me pull up. So I was not tremendously surprised when Cathy, dabbing at her eyes, didn’t say ‘don’t fire me’ or ‘I don’t want to lose you as a client’, but instead, softly, “I don’t want to get spanked.”

I managed my breathing and answered slowly and calmly. “Don’t blame you”, I said. “It hurts.”

“I wasn’t spying”, she sniffed.

“What would you call it?”

“It wasn’t like I was going to tell anyone.”

I wasn’t going to get into the finer points of what “spying” might mean.

“What do you want to have happen?” I asked her.

She seemed to mull over the answer then said, “I don’t want to get spanked”, again.

“I know. You said that. I heard you say it twice. What do you expect to happen?” She said nothing, content to stare holes in the desk before her.

“What would you like me to do?” I asked again, perfectly modulated.

She sniffed, giving a small shrug. I pitied her in her timid confusion but would not step into it. She would have to sort this out herself. I’d live with the silence for as long as it took for her to finally say, “I think you should do whatever you…need to do to make this go away.”

“Then I’m going to spank you.”

She shrugged again, but I heard a sharp breath before she said softly, “OK. I understand. I deserve it.”

I admit that I got a little fluttery here myself. When did this idea start to take shape with her? When she saw the plastic cutting board sticking out from under the bed? (She had slid it all the way under when I checked later-something that could not have been accidental.) The time she found the same ping pong paddle I was reaching for under a throw pillow on the couch? I know she had seen it because she had switched the pillows while cleaning. Which I thought was weird. Was she letting me know she had seen it?

I confess I didn’t care just then about her motivations as I grabbed the paddle off the top of the book shelf. When I turned toward her, instrument in hand, her eyes widened with the reality of what was about to happen. She flicked her hands as if drying them, pushing off nervous energy. Summoned, she came out from behind the desk toward me.

Without being told, she turned away and bent slightly sticking her bottom toward me. “Like this?” she asked pushing back with her hands on her freckled thighs.

I held her by the arm and she jumped when I cupped her bottom.

“We could do it this way”, I said. “But I have a better idea.”

She allowed herself to be led over to the futon where I sat. I was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t resist when I reached up and unsnapped her shorts. “I knew you were going to do this”, she said.

“Yeah”, I told her. “I don’t spank jeans.”

They fell to the floor and she stepped out of them. Her light green cotton panties clung to her flat belly perfectly outlining her mound of honey hued hair. She was motionless, hands at her side. I watched her face as my thumbs caught in the elastic and pulled her panties slowly down. Her eyes were closed, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and a pink blush spread across her cheeks. With no prodding from me, she settled over my lap in complete and total submission.

I knew this dance.  My kink brings with it an utter and total fascination with woman’s bottoms. That being said, Cathy’s bottom-its ivory color offset by tan lines above and below-was so…normal-as was the rest of her-that what we were doing seemed less carnal than it probably should have.

She and I were engaged in a call-and-response ritual where I would slap her bottom with my open hand and she would yelp, I would slap-she would yelp. We were two adults agreeably intertwined in a dance that wasn’t exactly sexual, but was all about sex. The heat rose and the pink handprints melded into an overall crimson quilt.

When I stopped to take a breath and admire my handiwork, she relaxed and asked back over her shoulder, “Are you going to use the paddle at all?”

“Oh yeah. Just wanted to make sure you’re ready for it. And don’t worry, Karen says my hand hurts worse than this paddle.”

The sound of wood on tender skin was different as was her reaction. If it was possible to settle into a comfort zone during a spanking, she had. The paddle brought her out of it. Wriggles became more of a hip roll as she absorbed swat after swat. After about ten, she blurted out, “Karen’s lying to you!” and fairly howled when I gave her what would be the last full-on swat on her right cheek.

“You’re done…” I said quietly allowing my hand to rest on her very hot bottom.

“Wow…” she said in something approaching wonder.

“Wow, indeed.” I rubbed her backside gently as she softened and fell into slow breathing. I stroked her cheeks, then down her thighs, then back up, sliding between her legs almost to the top where they met. But not quite.

“I don’t want to do anything else.”

“That’s fine. Me neither really.”

“That was enough.”

“That was plenty.”

“Do you want to get up?”

“Not yet. Is that OK?”

“That’s fine.”

“Thanks”, she said turning her head away and settling it onto the pillow.

The Norwegians – Part 6

(Continued from The Norwegians – Part 5)

When she heard the click of a door closing behind them Jessica sat bolt upright. “Does she live here?” she asked wide-eyed.

Angie was distracted by the girl’s round breasts jumping as the breathed the words. Her nipples had softened from the tiny bullets they were earlier which made them even more succulent. All she wanted to do was put one of them in her mouth and Angie usually got exactly what she wanted. But, with some effort, she held back in a rare display of self-control.

“No-she stays here from time to time.” Her blonde locks flicked lightly as she nodded in the direction Toni had left. “In the guest room. One of them anyway.”

Jessica relaxed a little. “Are you guys….” She stuck on the word and shuffled the cards looking for the right one. Angie moved imperceptibly closer drawn at the moment by the soft skin between Jess’ firm round girls. She could almost feel the cleavage with her mind’s tongue.

“Lovers?”

“I was gonna say ‘together’….”

“That’s a nothing word-what’s that even mean?”

Impulsively Jessica reached over and poked Angie in the arm. “You know what I mean.”

“Poking now, are we?” Angie in turn reached out and poked her in the arm. Then Jessica, then Angie again-but before Jessica could reach across again, she saw the fire in the blonde’s eyes and the direction of her gaze. She dropped her defenses, if that’s what you can call the threat of an aggravated poke in the arm, and leaned backward slightly-offering.

Angie gently touched her left breast and softly nudged the nipple with her thumb. It stiffened immediately. Jess let the hand loll there and closed her eyes enjoying the touch.

“So you guys….” Jess began.

“Jesus” Angie sighed, feigning aggravation. “I’ve known her since I was six”, she answered without answering the question.

“Huh” said Jessica. “At least she grew since then”.

“Oh-a short joke!”

Angie released her breast and poked her in the arm again, an attack that was answered in kind. They were giggling like schoolgirls in a pillow fight until Angie snatched Jessica’s nipple again-this time with a twinkle in her eyes that foretold something more than a fondle.

“You rat!”

“Rat? Who says Rat?”

“Don’t. You. Do. It”, Jessica said looking down at the fingers pinching her nipple.

“Or what?”

“You have a bottom made for spanking, girl.”

Their eyes met and in an instant settled into an understanding that there was no need to rush. What had begun this afternoon would continue.

“Ahhh…” Angie released the nipple. “Ok for now, then. Are you hungry?”

“I can tell you are.”

“For FOOD.”

“Starved.”

“Go jump in the shower-or at least wipe my cum off your face.” Jessica’s hand leapt to her face. “Just kidding-leave it. Or I’ll lick it off.”

Jessica unwound her legs and stood. “Give me ten minutes”, she said before impulsively reaching down to kiss Angie on the cheek. She watched her go seeing no evidence of the spanking but a thin wrinkle across her butt from the seam of the couch. She imagined running her tongue over it.

 

(To Be Continued…)