Owls

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Sitting on the deck overlooking the river, he had to call this another Airbnb win. They’d been lucky finding spots in cities-New York, DC-but this was the first go at a more rural location. Cabin on the river for three days, eagles overhead, hiking, biking, river access-it was great!

True, Jenny had been on edge since they got here but it always took her longer to get into the swing of a vacation than him. He couldn’t wait to get here and jump into the canoe that was tied to the dock and head out onto the water. She had even joined him for a moonlight paddle-but still had been a little tight. Whatever, he had thought. He’d just wait for her to loosen up. He listened to the last calls of the whippoorwill that he’d heard all night and watched the fog rise.

He dumped the dregs of his cold coffee into the weeds and was about to head back into the cabin for another when he heard Jenny banging around in the well-appointed kitchen. ‘Banging’ was the only way to describe it: cabinet doors were being yanked open and banged shut-drawers were sliding open and banging closed. He sat back down on the deck chair deciding it might be best to wait a few before that next cup.

The crashing inside stopped after one last bang and he saw his wife step out onto the screened porch and stalk to their bedroom at the other end. “Morning, Jenny”, he called after her getting no response whatsoever as she disappeared into the bedroom. “What the hell did I do now?” he mumbled watching the spot where she had been.

The bed creaked as she flopped on it and he felt it safe to get up for that second coffee. Half way across the deck he was stopped by a sound coming from the bedroom. It was a light slap-not loud but unmistakable. Then there was another, then a third.  It was a sound he knew pretty well.

He actually tiptoed up the three steps onto the porch and over to the open bedroom door as the sounds increased in frequency and intensity. Soft little grunts and bedsprings squeaking kept time with the slapping sound. He peeked in. Jenny was face down into the pillows and, having pushed her blue panties down off of her rear, was slapping herself with a spatula that she had evidently found in the kitchen.

Her slim freckled bottom was reddening in the morning light. As she was right-handed, most of the blows fell on her right cheek but while he was standing there she did extend to deliver a couple of smacks to the left. She was breathing heavily with the effort.

“Jen?” he asked. “Hey, Jen. You OK, babe?”

She paused in her exertions.

“OK. OK?” am I OK?”

“Yeah…I…”

She rolled onto her left hip and up onto her elbow. When their eyes met, hers were fierce and glistening. “When we were packing yesterday, you were bitching about how much I was bringing-like you always do and you remember what I said?”

“Uh…” he stammered, not remembering.

“I told you, I said…’I should stop being so bad’. Do you remember that?”

His eyes cut from her face to her white hip shining in the sun that was creeping through the window. Her panties, which she had hurriedly pushed down off of her bottom, bound tightly across her slim thighs where she crooked her right knee slightly.

“Last night, when we were out in the canoe I referred to myself as naughty. ‘Naughty’ Jeffery! But you were too busy with your fucking owls.”

“But Jen, that was a great horned owl we heard! We don’t get those back home. We only have screech owls and barn owls. Did you hear that deep ‘HOOOOT’…”

“Jeffrey! Focus please. When a thirty two year old woman describes herself as naughty it has very little to do with behavior. I mean, Jesus!”

He did focus then, pulling his eyes to the thick blonde bush peeking out above the stretched blue cotton. It disappeared when Jenny, in a final huff, flopped back onto her belly pulling the pillows tight to her face. Her bum was well colored on the right with little o’s from the holes in the plastic kitchen tool.

He set the coffee cup on the dresser and sat on the bed beside her.

“So you’ve been bad have you…?”

“Oh, great. NOW you’re taking the hint. Now you…Ouch!”

He pinched the soft skin at the bottom of her bottom and wasn’t about to let go. “Sooner or later, bad girls get what they deserve.”

She pushed her bottom back into his pinching fingers and he released her. With both hands he pulled her panties all the way down and off-tossing them onto the floor then knelt and pressed his left hand into the small of her back. His first smack was firm covering most of her right cheek-the second swatted the left. There was a small strawberry blooming where he had pinched her and he slapped it. Then again. Jenny’s breathing was ragged and she pushed against the hand that pinned her to the bed-not to escape but to more completely offer her bottom to his punishing palm.

Being slim, her freckled cheeks covered none of what was between her legs. Especially not now as she gyrated into his slaps. He could see her swollen lips glistening in the soft sunlight and a little trickle down the inside of her thigh.

“Oh, my”, he said stopping spanking long enough to touch her there. She reacted as to a shock when he massaged her shimmering cunt. “I know what my bad girl wants…”

But because he was Jeffery, he had to make sure and dropped his Daddy voice. “You want me to fuck you now, right?”

She sighed slipping out of the moment. “Jesus! Maybe’s there a school we could send you to….”

He slapped her on the back of the thigh and she jumped pulling her knees up slightly to bloom backward. “Sorry…sorry…” she gasped. He slipped his shorts off and knelt behind her. Her wet softness opened to him and he sluiced in to the hilt on first thrust. Then he pulled almost completely out and drove again hearing the bedsprings squeal.

His body covering hers, his hands pinning hers, he nibbled at her ear as he slid easily and deeply in and out of her sopping pussy. “This is what naughty girls get” he whispered into the ear he was nibbling.

She mewed softly and flowed into his rhythm.

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Same Dance, Different Music

“I think I need a spanking”, she said.

I heard her but didn’t react right away. There are a few things I’d expect me wife to say before that. “Look, a unicorn in the garden”, is one. “I love your clutter in the garage, it’s so cute”, would be another. In our relationship, she does initiate at times but pert near never from the bottom.

The last couple of days had been rough-family in the hospital, then out, then back. Job pressures, one particular niggling mistake at work that had cost her time and the company money, there were hurt feelings from another quarter because of a forgotten party invitation. One thing after another. The pressure had been building for a bit and now, so when she decided this was to be the relief, I wondered if it might be too late.

She was almost in tears asking for it. The veins on her neck pulsed slightly and, as we talked, her eyes filled. She ran her hands through her hair pulling it straight back, the key being pulling. A tear broke free of her right eye and etched a path down her cheek. We were both in odd places-she asking and me trying to negotiate a way out for her. “Do you want to take a run?” I asked wondering if I was enjoying this-holding back a bit. Having her ask again. “No, I don’t want to run. I want you to spank me! Jesus-Of course I’d do it.

We went upstairs and steered clear of our bedroom as we both knew this wasn’t going to be one of those spankings that led to sex. Or at least, I didn’t think so. Hard to judge, though since I’m a guy who thinks anything from having your car fixed to making scrambled eggs leads to sex. At any rate we opted for the spare room overlooking the garden where the afternoon light was golden and soft coming through the tree.

I sat on the end of the bed where I would typically undress her as she stood before me running her hands through by hair. There was none of that, though. She undressed as she would at the gym-efficiently and quickly. Shorts first, then underpants dropped to the floor.

“Take off your shirt too”, I said wanting to add something to the proceedings. “I want you completely naked.” She did as she was told and, never losing that pulled, drawn look, lowered herself without any prompting over my lap. I let her settle in and gave her a pillow for under her belly and we began.

I began at a moderate pace and force watching pink handprints overlap and meld into splotches. As she gave no reaction other than a small gasps or hisses, I picked up the pace. “Smacks” became “whaps” and my hand started to tingle. I extended my palette down the top of her legs before getting any reaction. I paused and shook my hand out. Clenching and flexing.

“Is this helping?”

“Keep going”, she said in a clear voice.

I pulled her closer as she had squirmed and slid a little in the last few minutes. One can only be so stoic. With my left arm draped over the small of her back and circling her hip I let fly with another 20 smacks in succession-which is the number she expected and would take her over 100 for this spanking. I landed flush on both cheeks, on the sit spots left and right then five resounding slaps to the middle of her bottom which echoed up the valley of her cheeks and brought a little gasp.

“Now?”

She sighed and turned her head slightly toward me. “It’s nothing but a painful distraction. Maybe I should have gone for a run.”

I crossed my arms over her very warm rear. “You have to bring more than your bum to a spanking, kid. If you want it to work for you.”

“I kind of count on you to know exactly what I want and wen I want it.” There was a lightness in her voice that wasn’t there a while ago. Progress.

“OK, I’m supposed to be a mind reader-I get it.” I raised my right hand as high as I could and delivered the hardest swat of the session to the meat of her pink right cheek.

“Owwww!!!”

“I figured you were numb by now.”

“That one got through.”

Hand-spanking this woman reached a point of diminishing returns somewhere north of a hundred slaps. I had left my hand on her cheek where it landed and squeezed gently. “Come on, get up from there.”

She rose quickly; clear-eyed and flush. “Wow”, she said drawing it out as she gasped her butt with both hands. “That is some heat.”

“Nothing but a painful distraction, right?”

“Don’t worry about it. Some days you got it, some days you don’t.” There was a tease there-a little challenge. Another tone I wouldn’t have heard twenty minutes before. More progress.

She took my rising as a signal to get dressed and picked her shorts and underwear off the floor.

“Uh-uh”, I said. “You won’t need them just yet.”

“What? Why?” she asked frozen in mid stoop. I didn’t answer, just turned and headed out the door. “What do you have in mind?”

“Just some mind reading”, I answered as I turned and headed out the door. “Stay”, I ordered.

I smiled when I noticed not only had she stayed, but hadn’t moved in the few scant moments that it took me to go down to our bedroom closet. She was still watching the door holding her clothes when I came back into the room carrying the cane.

“Hey-I’m good. Really. This was fine…” She sputtered backing against the wall as if to shield her backside. She felt the need to repeat since I didn’t answer. “I’m fine now…”

“Get over here”, I said firmly tapping the empty desk top.

She dropped her shorts and moved grudgingly away from the wall toward me. “I hate the cane!” she pouted.

“I know”, that’s why I’m only giving you twelve.”

“TWELVE?” She was standing in front of me, one hand still absently cupping her warm bottom, unsure what direction to take.

“Sixteen”, I said. “Want to try for twenty?”

She made a show of clamping her lips closed and stepped into me close enough that when I next spoke she could feel my breath.  “These are really going to hurt, you know.”

“Promise?” she said huskily, grabbing my crotch with a firm hand.

“Promise.”

Turning sharply displaying her well-spanked pink cheeks she took a wide stance. She bent slowly and suggestively over the desk until her breasts flattened against the cool oak surface. A small arch of the back presented all of her to me. I laid the cane gently across her cheeks and patted, knowing her jaw was set and eye lids clenched tightly.

I swung hard.

 

Best Kitchen Shelf EVER!

Best Kitchen Shelf EVER!

From Woodenspoonguy’s Tumblr feed

A few weeks ago a very dear, very vanilla, friend stayed at our house to feed the cats and hide from her house for awhile when we were at the shore.

You know how it is when someone stays at your place? When you get back, everything looks about the same-nothing is really amiss-but there are things that are a little off. I was sitting at the end of the couch-my spot-and reached for the lighter to my right on the bottom tier of a multi-level table.

“The spoon’s gone”, I said. “Did you move it?”

“No”, she answered putting down her book.

“I know I left it here…”

“Of course you would”, she said rolling her eyes. (I have a habit of leaving things around the place for visiting vanillas to find. My wife insists on a final run through of the house on the days the cleaning lady is scheduled. Another story for another time.)

“Wait a minute”, she said and went into the kitchen. I heard the drawers opening and closing until she came in slapping the spoon against her open palm.

“She must have put it away…”

And she had. Somehow fitting the long handled wooden spoon into the cutlery drawer where it had never been. Which of course leads me to wonder what she had to think finding a wooden spoon in the living room next to the couch.

The thought even made her smile-a little one, but a smile.

Training Day

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From Google Images

She breathed heavily eyeing the line of barrels before her. Despite the cool of the morning a bead of sweat-not the first-broke free between her shoulder blades and traced down her back. Gripping the reins a little too tightly she nudged the horse forward briskly.

First barrel, second, third, they cleared them well enough but she was dirt-kicking choppy, not gliding-not smooth. Fuck! She pulled off the last barrel and away from them. “Come on Sandy…”she implored under her breath as she moved toward the fence line.

“Nothing the matter with Sandy”, Braxton Taylor growled as she passed him. This guy heard everything! she thought. “Run them again”, he ordered, “and finish this time.” She yanked at the reins-digusted.

What a shit morning! Every drill-every run-had been off. She lifted her hat and wiped her sleeve across her forehead. Stalling, she stood in the stirrups and pushed her long, dark hair behind her ears then settled the hat back in place. Maybe bringing Braxton here was a mistake-she’d felt that when he first stepping into the ring. Then she relaxed and felt better. Now worse. The forested ridges of the Appalachian Range pushed skyward around her. Often shrouded in mists with fog tumbling down the hollows, today the sky was clear and the air crystal and piney. If only Lynette Holt’s mind were that clear.

Why had she pulled off the barrel? Braxton wondered. She hadn’t completed one course this morning. For a few moments she would look in control-the horse and she one-as she had during her six year reign as the state’s barrel racing queen. Then-for no reason-she would fall apart. Maybe not so badly that a layman could tell, but he knew, she knew and the judges would know.

At the top of the line of barrels, she took a breath and leaned a little forward. “Go”, she breathed and Nancy launched forward. One! Two! Three! Four! All clean then she leaned too far right and missed the last one again. “FUCK!” she barked aloud then slumped in the saddle.

Braxton hated swearing in the ring. He hated harsh words around horses. Everyone thought he was some kind of damn horse whisperer. He was good-she’d give him that. She hadn’t lost one championship in the years they were married. Of course, she hadn’t won one since they split. Didn’t place last year. Fuck it, she thought. I’m paying him. It’s my place now. I’ll swear if I want.

That was better, thought Braxton reading her body language right up until it wasn’t. The racer he knew was in there but was only showing up in spurts for quick peeks. They’d been out here for the better part of an hour and he’d cajoled her to this point-but it was like trying to wring water out of a dry towel. He sidled up closer to where she moped, Sandy pawing at the dust.

“Any chance at all you might get your head out of your ass so we could get some actual work done today?”

She could almost hear the blood rushing to her head. “You’re not exactly helping!” she barked.

“Only room in the saddle for one.”

Her chest tightened and a low keening sound-like a steam kettle-started in her ears. She white-knuckled the reigns and leaned over Sandy’s neck; her horse’s signal to “GO!” And Sandy went. They wheeled away from the barrels and in a flash were out of the circle, through the open fence and up along the edge of the field. They veered past the lone walnut tree and jumped lightly over a deadfall she had been meaning to move. With a tight turn she came back and jumped it again. There she is, Braxton thought watching her loose in the field. One with the horse, anticipating moves, initiating others…Finally, in the middle of her little tantrum, he caught a glimpse of the rider she had been in her twenties. Not so long ago in years-but decades in attitude and confidence.

She pulled Sandy up. What the hell was she doing? That hadn’t helped at all. The bands around her chest still constricted, her ears still rang and she was squeezing the reins like they were rattle snakes. Breathing in gulps, she settled into a soft lope back to where Braxton was watching her. His eyes were hidden deep in the shadow of his hat but she knew they would be slits-not so much against the sun-he squinted at night. No, he’d be trying to figure her out-overthinking as usual-trying to find a different answer to the question they both knew too well.

“Why did you hire me?” he asked as she pulled up beside him. “There are a slew of trainers in this valley would work for free for the chance to put you through your paces.” She jerked her head and met his lidded gaze with her own sharp glare.

“Already had them!” she snapped with more venom than she intended.

“And how did that work out?”

She opened her mouth to snap again but bit her tongue. She needed to look away and pulled her eyes over toward the cursed barrels.

“I think it’s time we take a walk to the tool shed”, Braxton said flatly.

Lynette looked away from the barrels and over to the small outbuilding-more workshop than toolshed-beside the barn.

“Not likely”, she said, avoiding his eyes.

“Pretty likely” he answered.

“No way.”

“Get off your horse.”

“No. Fucking. Way.” She spat every word like it was poison to be expelled.

His implacable gaze didn’t waver and his stance betrayed none of the roilings starting to rise in him. He looked up at her, into her and through her, watching the veins in her neck redden, twist and climb like pulsing vines. “Suit yourself” he said breaking the look and turning away.  “Let’s run it from the top”, striding toward the barrels.

Her hands-squeezing and releasing the reins-sweated and the tightness hardened in her breast. She sucked air in quick swallows and watched a red film cover her eyes from her temples in.  Sandy was calm-but attentive-awaiting any signal.

Walking away Braxton heard her grumble “God Damn It!” then a leather creak, then the sound of boots hitting dirt. He turned to see her stalking away from him toward the tool shed. He absently stroked his jawline with his knuckles watching the perfect inverted heart of her taut backside stomp off then disappear through the open door into the dim interior. Which then disappeared itself when she slammed the door. At that he grinned-he didn’t even know that door shut. “Come on Sandy”, he led the horse into the ring, taking his time. He closed the gate and headed to the shed.

Inside, dust motes rose and whirled in the slashes of sunlight burning between the roughly hewn barn siding. She had a corner of the shed where she kept her tack and some odds and ends but didn’t spend much time in here where the memories lay thick like coats of old milk paint. The old saddle shone on the stall rail where she kept clean and oiled after swearing to get rid of it. The low bench was in the same place it always was but she stayed clear of it.

She took off her hat off and hung it on a peg, shaking her hair back to hang loosely around her shoulders. Her breath was coming easier – still shallow and quick-but easier. The bands she felt in her chest were loosening but replaced by cold flutters low in her gut. She knew these feelings well having many times gotten herself into something that there was no way out of.

Outside the open widow she watched a small flock of chickadees swarming the thistle bushes along the back fence. Further down the line a few wild canaries flashed and lit and beyond them the dark green of the foothills rolled. She was finally seeing the beauty of the morning when the door scraped open behind her. Her heart quickened.

Because she had closed it, he pushed it shut behind him and stood waiting for his eyes to adjust. Lynette was a silhouette backlit by the window until she eventually clarified and materialized out of the gloaming. She kept her eyes averted-not down-but not looking at him. He ran his hand over the smooth leather of the old saddle-not really surprised that she kept it so well.

She thought she wanted to say something but decided to let it be. She could manage her words well enough but was afraid her voice might betray her. Did she want this or not? Was she wrong to want this? Why couldn’t she just ask-just take what she wanted? Why, why, why? The badgering questions were tightening her chest again.  Still watching out the window she listened and knew what he was doing. She heard him lift the old saddle then place it on the bench. Waiting for Braxton to speak first would be a fool’s errand. But she engaged in the game…listening to the birds and waiting. Truth was, she was weak in the legs and suddenly concerned that she might stumble.

Ready in time, she turned slowly and walked carefully, almost weightlessly, as she might wade through a deep hole down in the creek.  Gone were the sharp angles and precise stomping of a few short minutes ago. Her head swam slightly as she walked up on the saddle for the first time in close to three years. She glanced over at Braxton who was also hatless and spending an inordinate amount of attention on rolling up his sleeves.

The window was still her focus as she loosed her belt from the buckle then unsnapped her jeans. With a deep breath she pushed the zipper down then pushed the pants down off of her hips squatting slightly to send them all the way down to her boots. Then, linking her thumbs in the waistband of her panties, pushed them down as well. The cool air on her naked parts excited her.

Braxton watched as she rubbed her butt up under her shirt tail as if trying to smooth the creases. He really hadn’t expected his day to wind up here but had prepared for it. Had set it in his mind as a possibility. But nothing could prepare him for the sight of Lynette Holt lowering herself over the saddle and pulling her shirt up her back.

The woman he had loved and lusted after for years before was splayed before him-backside high and luscious-hands flat on the dirt floor in front of her, boot toes dug in behind. The sight hadn’t changed much in three years. He knew the contours of her body better than his own. Maybe a little thicker, maybe a little rounder, maybe the dividing crease between the two milky moons a little deeper, but only something he would notice.

Finally it was Braxton who, stepping close, spoke first.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked.

“Yes”, she hissed but he couldn’t tell if it was still in anger or something else.

She heard the dry rasp of his belt being pulled through the loops. She had noticed the belt he wore as soon as he had walked into the ring that morning. It was an old one-one she had bought for him when they were married. One she had felt before. He eyed her bottom goose-bumped in the cool shade of the shed and took measure with the strap swinging in his right hand.

She expected the pain-but pain in memory against reality. She gasped when the first lash fell hard and squeezed at the dusty floor. The second cracked across the middle of her backside and she opened her mouth wide but made no sound determined to take it stoically. She tensed as the third slash whistled and gasped when it landed. He slapped the fourth swat above the others-below the tan line but high enough to burn anew.

Yes, she expected the pain but what she hadn’t expected were the burning eyes. She didn’t cry. She once finished a ride with a separated shoulder and no one was the wiser. She remembered that now as she squeezed her eyes tight in a futile attempt to hold back the tears that would not be denied. She coughed a sob, then another-tiny cracks and trickles in the face of a dam that finally broke with one more brilliantly placed slash dead center on her bottom.

Her wail chased the chickadees and finches into the woods. The next slash angled lower to kiss the top of her right leg and she screamed afresh. This was new-she had been stoic under his strap before. But this time she cried and kicked her boot toes into the dust.

She spread her legs as wide as her confining jeans would allow-wide enough for Braxton to see her womanhood open to him. He pulled his eyes toward the floor looking up only to bring another lash down on her heaving bottom. It was like looking at a favorite place from the seat on a train-he’d been there, would love to be there again-but right now couldn’t reach it.

And it was harder to avoid knowing how wet she would be in there now. How thickly welcoming would be her embrace of him. He could feel the warm pull of her, sucking him in-gripping him tightly as he thrust deeply into her the heat of her strapped bottom rubbing against him. He felt his own surge lifting from inside and…Jesus! He blinked and shook his head. He cleared his throat and swung-hitting high again leaving a strawberry ribbon across the deep dimples just below her belt line that he oddly, suddenly remembered the taste of.

But he was with Vera now. And she had been less than thrilled as it was that he was going back to training his ex-wife but the money was good and she relented. Obviously not knowing what all training Lynette Holt entailed. He couldn’t very well go home with his ex-wife’s scents and juices drying over him. But there it was.

Braxton paused and gulped air almost as raggedly as she did. Lynette’s bottom glowed red like the coals of a banked cooking fire.

“I’m done if you’re done”, he said huskily.

The wave of tears ceasing, she caught her breath and looked back over her shoulder. The hair stuck to her face and he couldn’t see her well. “Six more”, she said. “Across the bottom.” That second direction could seem redundant but he knew her “bottom” meant the bottom of her bottom-the sit spots-where her legs met the swell of her cheeks.

After the sixth and final lash she collapsed like a pricked balloon over the saddle. The tension and hard muscles deflated as she lay limply breathing. Braxton glanced at the work bench seeing-and secretly happy-that there wasn’t the jar of aloe unguent that they used to keep there. He felt he would have been somehow duty bound to rub some on her hot and tortured bum and that might be more than a man could stand.

She heard him stride across the floor and saw the light spread across the room as he opened the door. Not a word. Not a touch. She was fine with that, she thought pushing herself upward and standing slowly. She bent in the knees slightly and cupped her cheeks feeling the heat. “Damn, Braxton”, she whispered squeezing and rubbing lightly-gingerly. “Damn…”

Outside Braxton leaned against a fence post and lit a cigarette with a shaking match. He pushed himself down his left leg to make standing more comfortable. Sandy came over and nudged at him. He was careful to blow the smoke away from Sandy’s muzzle. He stroked the horse gently and scratched at her ears. “Sandy, you are about the only woman I understand”.

He heard her walking up on them. Her face was blotched and red-eyed and her hair was pulled back severely into a pony tail. She stood beside him and breathed deeply, gazing at the ridgeline.

“Sorry about that Brax. I shouldn’t have…”

He cut her off. “Never a problem Nettie.” She smiled for the first time that morning at the nickname she hadn’t heard in three years.

She walked around to Sandy. “Let’s go to work”, she said pulling herself up into the stirrups and settling-very gently-down into the saddle.

The Boarder

Fuckyeahabandonedplaces

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(Continued from The Landlady…)

He listened to her footfalls fade and cut his eyes to the duffel stowed in the corner. It still bulged with an extra pair of jeans and shorts so he’d have little to toss in. Only two of the four dresser drawers were sparsely occupied and there was his razor. He stood and took his jacket off the hook behind the door. Didn’t want to walk out without it even if it was torn at the shoulder and the inside lining was shot. It was the only one he had.

He pulled a drawer and picked up the only dress shirt he owned. It was freshly washed and folded; set in the drawer by her. Not since he left home had he had a woman doing his clothes. And he was leaving. Walking out the door. Where would he sleep tonight?

A red flicker in the tree outside caught his eye. There were a half dozen cardinals that spent the days there and he was given to watching them flit among the leaves. He pushed the shirt into the bag. He’d been here for a couple of months and had no other plans beyond the day-to-day. The only money that he had jingled and wouldn’t get him far. Certainly wouldn’t get him another room-especially around here where before he was down the street everyone would know he had walked owing board money.

Where would he sleep, he seemed to be asking the cardinal. Outside, beyond the tree and the woodpile the road ribboned off away from town and into the mountains. He’d be sleeping in the woods tonight-he knew that. Back to the woods, by-ways and haylofts that seemed to be his lot. This place-a bed, roof and two squares a day was not his natural state. The road was, dammit!

Unless…unless…He looked over at the bed. Imagined himself laying there like she told him to. Then he could stay. That’s what she said anyway. But how could he do that? Granted it would be easier-over and done with-than finding a place to stay in out of the weather tonight. Over and done with.

She had left the door open but that was no matter. There was nobody in the place but the two of them. He had been alone in this house most of the past two weeks with her. She hadn’t really registered with him as “a woman”, really. As she said-she was almost old enough to be…he left that one go. One thing he had not had any luck with was women. Not just here and now…but anytime. If you put aside the “whys” of it, there was a woman here wanting him to get undressed. That was the base of it.

He allowed his mind to wander down that road a moment and he felt…something. Not exactly butterflies-something deeper. Something lower. Something he would rather not think about but it did pull at him. Pushed actually. Pushed at his fly. Oh boy, he thought-nervously looking down at himself. The more he looked, the more he pushed. Oh boy, he thought again. He held his hands out in front of him surprised to see them shaking. He put them to work on his pants.

He lay on the bed just as she had instructed, his naked bottom pointing toward the door and pulled a pillow under his head. He heard her coming back down the hall. Did she really mean it? Or would she see him and laugh-tell him to pull his pants up and get the hell out.  Her steps grew louder and stopped right behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut as it hiding.

She froze in the open doorway and her heart fluttered. I’ll be damn, she thought. I’ll be good gawd damned. She moved inside and closed the door behind her. Conscious of the silence she had to say something.

“So, it looks like you’re stayin’…”

“If I can, yes….”

“We’ll need to work a few things out…”

“Yes, mam, I guess we will….”

He moved a little to arrange himself underneath. The rough chenille of the bedspread rubbed at him every time he moved. She put the belt on the bed and pushed his shirt-which was hanging down low-up to the middle of his back. He had pushed his pants to just below his bottom. “Lift up”, she said. He did, scraping the bed spread again, and she pulled his pants down to his knees. Despite the warmth of the room he felt a chill all over. His bottom was white as milk and smooth with just a peek of hair. Her husband had been as furry as a bear which she really had never cottoned to.

He was strong-you could tell that by looking at him. His muscles rippled across his back and shoulders as he squeezed the pillow, waiting. She had no idea what he did in the service-if he was even in the service- but the job he had lost down at the mill was loading boxcars. Hard, unforgiving work. She was looking down at the only fat on him-if you could call the taut bottom before her, fat.

She knew that if he decided to react physically against her there wasn’t a thing she could do about it but hope he let her survive. That he wasn’t doing anything but laying there to accept what she sent his way stoked a fire in her.

What was she waiting for? He kept tensing and releasing the muscles in his back and shoulders. He didn’t know how bad it would be but he’d rather get on with it. He could handle pain…he guessed he could. This was different though. There was something mixed in with the pain that was coming that was makin’ this a whole ‘nother deal. Something about this-laying like this and waiting-was somehow not new to him. He worked for the memory-dug down for it but was interrupted by the first lash of the belt across his cheeks. He jumped a little in surprise but that was it. That was all? That wasn’t so bad. He could take this.

She looked down at his butt and saw nothing really. The first smack had been a dud. Whipping a bed and turning loose on a grown man’s backside were two different things, she guessed. She remembered the pain that was part of her whippings-how he had to have brought the belt coming from the ceiling to cause the searing burn that took her breath away and made her yell loud enough for all the boarders to hear. That was the worst of it.

She held the belt to her side swinging back and forth and then, with a wind milling motion brought it up and around-then raising on her toes-down as hard as she could. “AAHH!” he yelled into the pillow. A dark pink stripe outlined in red immediately appeared across his cheeks. That was better. He coughed into the pillow-Christ! he thought. That hurt like a bitch! She had the rhythm now and paused only to ready the next stroke. He took each one as silently as he could-tensing the muscles across his back and shoulders to absorb the pain.

Breathing into the pillow damp with his saliva he tried to conjure that memory that stayed just out of reach. Something about the way he was laying…Another lash of the belt burned across his buttock and bit high into the meaty part of his leg. He barked into the pillow and flexed his leg up-as if to crawl away-exposing himself in a new way. She didn’t look away-indeed she paused-then told him to lay flat and cover up.

He did, straightening his leg back but causing his cock, which had gone mostly soft under the withering barrage of the belt, to come to life again, dragged across the chenille. He almost moaned as he pulled his legs together then elevated his bottom slightly, giving her a better target but also affording more opportunity to rub against the spread.

He endured the next four strokes undulating his hips forward on the stroke then back and up into position on her back stroke. Forward and back, forward and back-suddenly what was happening behind him, as painful as it was, was less so. What was going on in front-between him and the mattress had his attention now. From behind she was concentrated on her aim and her force and didn’t really catch his movement until now.

“You shoot on that bedspread and you’re worshin’ it”, she said.

He could do no more than grunt, but stopped his waving-slowly thrusting his bottom back up into position. He waited. And waited. From behind, she studied her handiwork-the bright white globes were now crossed with pink and red weals extending from the top of his backside down to the top of his thigh. She touched his right cheek which was the sorer of the two as if assessing the damage. He jumped at her touch then relaxed back as her hand stayed in place. Then he felt both hands on him, rubbing and stroking his tortured flesh, then gently pulling his cheeks apart.

He quit breathing as her hands spread him back there. Frozen, he had no idea what was coming next, but no interest in anything but finding out. Gently she slid her right hand down between his legs. He opened slightly and she reached down under him, feeling the strength, the fullness and stiffness; a different heat rose from down there-a warmer, damper heat. Pulsing and more base-more elemental than anything she could do to him. He opened his legs a bit wider and the heat rose to her like a need. A desire so deep and strong that it changed the temperature in the room. She pulled away and he heard the buckle click as she set the belt on the dresser.

“Turn over”, she said huskily.

“Ahh…I shouldn’t”, he said.

“You want me to pick the belt back up?”

He slowly rolled over, away from her, freeing his cock to flip into the air like a mast. He looked at it and at her. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy. She touched it at the top then gently cupped the head and circled her palm around it as if trying to see if the top would screw off. She wasn’t that experienced in the equipment of men but this one was a little more-a lot more actually- than she had dealt with for the past too many years.

He watched her pull away from his pole and reach up under her dress with both hands. With a gentle yank, her drawers slipped down and puddled to the floor. She stepped out of them and reached again for his swollen member. This time she came closer and held it. Slowly she put her mouth down on it-just on the tip, letting the head fill her mouth-and rubbed her saliva around, lubricating him. He moaned and closed his eyes.

The bed rolled as she kneeled beside him. He felt her throw a leg over and when he looked, she was squatting over him-her dress held at her waist as she measured where she would settle. Her thighs were thin but strong, topped by a wild bush of hair that was made to appear blacker by the gray that shot through it. He only saw if for a second because once he felt her womanhood open over his cock, she pushed the dress down as far as she could.

“You oughta take that off…” he said.

“You never mind what I oughtta do.”

He felt himself pushing slowly, almost grudgingly shouldering inward-every inch feeling as if it was opening new ground. She was concerned about the length of it as much as the thickness. She kept her legs under her as she lowered slowly, slowly and surprised that she opened-if not easily, comfortably-to him. There was none of the twisting and fitting that she had imagined to get it in. It was the wetness that did it, she knew. And not that little bit a spit she put on it either. It was the wetness she felt between her legs as soon as she started whippin’ his ass.

He moaned loudly as she sat all the way down fully encasing him. She lifted once then slipped back, then up then back-up and down then again up and down. She closed her eyes and tossed her head back trying to get into the right rhythm. She was breathing quickly and fell forward onto her knees-her hands on both sides of his head. She looked into his eyes. “If you shoot off before I come, I will whip you like a bad child…”

His breath came in shallow gulps. “I won’t”, he said…”I won’t”, but he didn’t know how he wouldn’t. He thought of work-of stacking cartons of nails on pallets in the boxcar. He thought of the foreman, with his unlit cigar and straw Stetson yelling at everyone simply because he could see them. He pictured himself running up Currahee Mountain in heavy boots and shorts back in basic…..his mind ran in circles like a mouse in a hot bucket trying to pull focus from his landlady who had by now stretched out atop of him and with her legs back, grinding hard into the ride she was on.

He took hold of her narrow bottom and pulled her into him while driving his hips up into her. He…didn’t….have…much-time-TIME-left here and was gritting his teeth when he felt her shudder and bite into his shirt collar mercifully missing his throat. Her high pitched keening let him know that he had crested the hill and that it was alright, finally, to come. He drove upward in one massive thrust that, with his back arching, lifted her high into the air. He came pulsing hard and strong. If not for her astride him, engulfing him, he would have been able to spatter is name across the ceiling.

They lay together-she on top of him as they regained some measure of regular respiration. His cock-now blown was still inside her-taking up less room than it had been-but still large enough not to fall out on its own. They both seemed to take pleasure in its twitches and starts. She allowed him to run his hands over her sweat-dampened dress and even under it so he could explore the hot wet spot where they were still attached. He moved slightly and winced, suddenly awakened to the raw burning of his whipped ass-a hot contrast to the smooth cool white cheeks he was feeling up under the dress.

“Such a thing as this”, he thought. It was something his auntie used to say. Didn’t know where it had come from nor what it meant. Nor why it came to mind just then. He let it be and just breathed.

 

Six Months and Counting…and Counting…

© HotBottoms

© HotBottoms

“But I wasn’t being bad…” She said peering intently outside where absolutely nothing was happening on the decrepit tennis courts…

“I know that honey” I said gently.

“Then why….?”

“Just come over here please…” I said from my seat at the bottom of the bed. My voice wasn’t menacing-certainly not threatening-it was soft, as I recall. Cajoling…

After a moment she turned reluctantly from the window and walked toward me. Backlit as she was, I couldn’t see her face but could clearly-or all I remember now- as she approached were her legs-long, strong and smooth.

It was our six month wedding anniversary and would be her first spanking.

Not long ago we were driving the back way to one of our favorite hiking spots in the mountains when we passed the Mountain Top Inn. It was freshly painted and the roof was new, but it looked about the same as it did those many years ago. It wouldn’t be at the top of anyone’s “go-to” lists but for a young couple with not much, it was 5-Star.

We talked about the walks we had taken that weekend, the antiques and some of the fall flowers we had picked and preserved. We were into that then. And of course we talked about the…

She said what she often said when reminded of the first time: “I thought it was a phase you would grow out of…” It would have been easier to grow out of being right-handed. It would have been easier for me to grow out of my stocky, swarthy body type into a sleeker Nordic model better suited to my taste in clothes. It would have been easier to…..you get the idea.

For me, the question always was-why had it taken so long for me to invite my beloved vanilla over my lap? We had been together four months-then married six. Ten months? Hell, my prom date ended up over my lap in the backseat of my buddy’s Catalina while everyone-including my date-laughed like hell. (God, how I wanted to lift her dress and pull her panties down. Wanted it so badly I think my hands were shaking. It might have eased the memory of never really having gotten past first base with her. Damn cheerleaders! Dick-teases all of them!…But I digress).

I blame our whirlwind courtship fraught with nasty family drama coming at us from all sides. Our rush to be married just two short months after deciding that we would, consumed us. We had a short time to get to know each other-plan some kind of wedding-juggle what seemed to be a tribe of supportive friends and, times being what they were, there was a seemingly endless parade of parties, drinking and general revelry. And the sex was what you would hope it to be in your twenties: fresh, new, mysterious and continuous. Maybe her first spanking had to wait for a routine to develop; for the first hint of “sameness” to poke its gray head into what we were doing.

For that first one we hadn’t yet instituted the practice of kissing when heads passed on the way over the lap so she settled herself hesitantly and cautiously on her belly. She thought I was going to swat her a few times on her panties and waited nervously. Instead I slipped my fingers into the elastic of her waistband and slipped them slowly and oh so s-l-o-w-l-y down: the first bottom reveal of our marriage. She lifted up to allow them to come down but said…”Oh man…” sort of breathlessly.

Me, as I recall, made that hissing sound that Hannibal Lecter made when he first smelled Clarice Starling. Can’t swear to it, but with the first swat I laid on her bare bottom, I’m sure my eyes rolled back in my head like a great white chomping a seal.

The spanking didn’t last too long. Probably no more than fifteen or sixteen smacks-mostly soft with ample cupping and rubbing and a lot of-no that is not a banana in my pants I am indeed happy to see you. Her bum was a sweet cotton-candy pink when I helped her back onto her feet and I wondered about the look in her eyes. Until she pushed me back on the bed with her panties still binding her at mid-thigh.

The chest thumping, sweat flying sex we had after the spanking left us so spent we dispensed with the planned afternoon hike and lounged instead in the green pool. Seriously. It was green. Come on, I said, it will be like swimming in a pond.

It took us a while to work out the complete ground rules of what we were doing when we realized this wasn’t going to be a once in a while type thing. A few weeks later we were playing racket ball and she missed a shot. Fierce competitor that she is, she slammed the ball off four walls sending me ducking then, to further impress anyone watching with how pissed off she really was, threw her racket.

I waited for her to regain composure before picking up the ball to serve. She picked up her racket, took a couple of breaths then popped me lightly in the chest with it. “See”, she said. “This is when you should spank me. When I deserve it, not just because.” Duly noted. But let the record show, I didn’t discard the “just because” option entirely.

Now as we were driving off into the mountains reflecting on a marriage of decades and literally countless spankings: birthday-spankings, punishment spankings, maintenance spankings, foreplay spankings (line blurs on that one) she, the converted vanilla, allows that it was probably spanking that saved our marriage. Or at least kept it from getting to a place where it would have needed saving.

Through up times, down times, jobs, no jobs, big money, no money, strong sex drive; no sex drive we have this thing, this one through-line to our marriage that grounds us as it binds us. Like a weird religion that we practice in private. No matter how distant we become from one another, which happens now and again, how often one of us might slip into that window staring ennui, we have something that will pull us back together.

As she explained to one of her vanilla friends who just didn’t get it “No matter how much we don’t like each other at times-there’s always this thing that we know we are going to do with each other that will break the ice and bring us close again. Plus it ends up with him rubbing lotion on my bare butt.”

And what could be wrong with that?