Geneva – 12

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(Continued from Geneva – 11)

His eyes locked on hers as she moved slowly toward him. It wasn’t far, but every step of the foot-dragging-journey seemed to take forever. She broke first, dropping her gaze to the floor. She wasn’t afraid, exactly. At least she didn’t think so-but she sure felt something. She remembered learning about the flight or fight response in psychology. That must be what she was feeling-but she was doing neither. She was submitting. Her response was to acquiesce. Maybe that’s what frightened her.

She stopped when she saw his feet and knees in front of her. As if reading her mind, he asked softly, but in the same stern tone, “Do you trust me?” She said nothing for a breath then nodded meekly as the word ‘yes’ fell stillborn to the floor.

Done talking he reached out and unsnapped, then opened, her jeans. He pulled them down with none of the attendant gentleness that would come with undressing a lover. Her hands, having nothing to do, dangled. He guided her, shuffling, to his side before pulling her panties down to lie with her jeans in a bundle at her feet.

The sunlight illuminated her glowing white skin and he, with difficulty, ignored the luxurious tangle of fur standing within easy reach. His eyes lingered though, when he caught her sweet scent in the light breeze coming through the door. “Lay over”, he said with difficulty, his tongue, like hers, slow and dry. Avoiding his eyes and flushing a deep pink, she bent and leaned her hands first on his legs, then on the chair beside him and finally, as she settled over his lap, onto the rough floor, mortified that her bare backside was pointing into the yard.

He cupped her bottom once to push her higher and she wriggled into a better position and waited nervously feeling the heat of the fall sun on her skin. He resisted the urge to touch her-wanting this moment to stand singularly from any other where he might fondle or caress her bare bottom.

“I don’t want this”, she said to the floor. “I hate this. But I’m still sorry for what I did…I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” He patted her soft bum once, then again, tenderly. “And I forgive you. Now let’s get this out of the way. Don’t tense-that will make it worse.” With that he raised his arm and brought his hand with a loud “SMACK!” onto her creamy right cheek. As anyone reacting to their first spanking, every swat was met with a verbal response. Gennie yelped “OUCH”, then “OWW” then “OUCH” again as he spanked first one side then the other then back again.

His blows weren’t as hard as they could be but certainly not light. She allowed herself to begin crying at around the seventh or eighth swat and once she opened the gate, all the afternoon’s tension and her fear of being sent away flew through her and out, driven by his heavy hand on her backside. Her crying filled the workshop punctuated by “OOOO’s” and “OWWW’s” which became louder as he quickened the pace of the blows at the same time reducing their severity. She began to kick and squirm.

“Lie still”, he commanded pausing.

“I’m trying”, she sniffed.

He concentrated his smacks on the void at the bottom of her bottom where her cheeks met the tops of her legs so every echoing swat reverberated between her legs. As her bottom numbed to his spanks, her flower awoke to the reverberations.

“Here”, he said, “Let me move you…” He spread her legs slightly so that in delivering the final light swats he could cup her cheeks and allow his fingers to linger in the softness between.  After a pause, he said “I think you’re done”. His hand rested at the top of her leg kneading slowly.

“Thank God!” she said, lifting one hand then the other to wipe her eyes. But she didn’t move to rise as his fingers explored between and below her pink-spattered mounds. After a moment, she felt his hardness poking at her belly.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“I’ve had worse times”, he said sliding his finger deftly across her moist labia. “You?”

“Great” she said sarcastically but made no move as he rubbed.

“You want me to stop?” he asked pausing and seemingly ready to pull his hand out. She pushed her bottom back to stay engaged.

“Don’t be hasty. Really, it’s the least you could do.”

“You are in a pretty vulnerable position to be a smartass.”

She didn’t push it, nor did she move, save for the slow undulating dance of her hips against his prodding finger.  She was pushing backward off the floor wriggling against his growing cock. “Hold on”, she said. “As much as I hate to move, I have to tend to that.”

She stood quickly and, marching in place, hurriedly stomped her pants and underwear off. She pushed him hard back onto the chair when he began to stand and reached for his belt. She yanked it roughly as he tore her T-shirt toward himself, up her back and over her head leaving her completely naked but for the tears on her cheeks and the blush on her bottom. She barely noticed, hungrily pulling his jeans and underwear down.

He pulled her in and closed his lips over one small taut breast, then the other, and nibbled softly, squeezing her warm bottom. She growled lowly, throwing a leg over and straddling him. Reaching down she grabbed him firmly, placed him, then gently impaled herself in one long sure move. She settled, wriggled-kissed him hard-then lifted slightly-to fall back down. Then lifted higher-almost out. Then sat hard again. Then again. Her grunting exertions accompanied the soft squishing sound that became louder and louder as she as she pumped and jumped faster and faster working her burning thighs to the loud slap-slap-slap of his bare ass on the hard, wooden chair.

“I…shouldn’t…be….doing…this…after…the way…..you….spanked…me…”, she gasped.

“If you stop now, you’ll get another one”, he growled, his hands on her bouncing butt.

“Come dammit-COME!” she barked as she began to shudder bucking hard in his lap. He didn’t need the direction lifting his ass off the hard wood and squeezing her tightly-his hands slipping along her damp back.  She rode him hard, bucking into a shudder then crying out something that might have been words as she came loudly just at the moment he coughed and spurted deeply up into her.

He collapsed hard onto the chair as they, still coupled, shrunk into one another like balloons after a party. Her slick body glistened in the sun as he slid his hands over her. Was it only 15 minutes ago that she worried about someone seeing her bare butt out the door?

Too spent to lift her head, her lips tickled his collarbone.

“The most confusing orgasm ever”, she breathed.

“If it was easy, everyone would do it.”

Continuing…

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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.