Copyright by Mael DelaVara
The following letter was found in the binding of a Bible belonging to Miss Henrietta Waters, who lived in the village of West Stafford, Dorset, England. The Bible had lain forgotten in the attic of a cottage which was occupied by generations of the same family. It was discovered only when the property came into the hands of new owners.The date of the letter is unknown, but from the years recorded on Miss Waters' gravestone, it can be conjectured as 1885 or 1886. Also unknown is the identity of the writer, but research in local records would doubtless prove fruitful.
My dearest Henrietta,
I miss you terribly. I know I am most fortunate to have entered the service of Lady Fotheringill, and as her personal maid no less; but I am pining away for you. I don't miss that horrid finishing school or that beastly Miss Beecham. I know she takes a special delight in whipping you. I just know she does. She almost never beat me, but she never misses an opportunity to subject you to prolonged chastisement. I think you are her favorite. Do you still have the marks from the last birching? I'm sure you do; your skin is so soft. I miss when you'd show me your bottom afterwards, and I would cry at the sorry sight, and I'd lick my tears along your welts; and you'd say it stings and burns, but it's a sweet pain, so I'd trace each weal with the tip of my tongue, and you'd coo gently and get goose pimples--and I'm getting goose pimples just writing this!!!
I will give this letter to good old nurse Cracknit. I see her every few days in the village. She can smuggle it to you up at the school. There's always someone sick up there, so she should be visiting soon. Make sure you hide it in the usual place, otherwise I will lose my position and you will get the birching of a lifetime, and I wouldn't be there to comfort you.
I wish so much you were here with me. You could stay in my room; the bed is big enough for both of us. I'm going to suggest this to her ladyship once I get in her good graces. And I could certainly use your help. Her ladyship has a bath twice a day, and my back is so sore from carrying cauldrons of hot water to the tub. She makes me wash her private parts for at least five minutes, and she keeps on saying, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness." I don't think she is that unclean down there, but she has a large and thick coat of black hair in that area, as if she was wearing a stole over her mound of Venus.
I'm writing this sitting on a prickly bottom. Yesterday morning I took coffee to her ladyship in the drawing room, and she said to me, "I haven't inspected you." I didn't know what she meant, but she continued, "you girls from those finishing schools are always so unhealthy. I believe it's because you all engage in furtive practices." I still didn't know what she was talking about, so I let her ramble on. She said my skin had an unwholesome palor, my eyes were unfocused and droopy, and my general demeanor was listless. Now it's true I had a particularly bad visit from auntie this month, and I'm usually weak for a few days after, but that's just mother nature.
I let my attention drift away from her ladyship's monologue until I suddenly heard her say, "Strip, girl." I don't know what surprised me more, her ordering me to undress, or her calling me girl. After all, I'm now old enough to be married, and I wouldn't mind marrying her ladyship if she was a young man; she's a handsome woman. So I felt no reluctance to obey her command. I wanted her to see me and like me. Of course, I'd seen her naked many times by now. And there were no men in the house: her ladyship retains only female servants. But I still didn't understand why she needed to inspect me, and what that was.
She began pressing me and poking me and prodding me as if I was a horse she was intending to purchase. She called me a skinny little thing. I liked it when she cupped her strong hands over my titties; you know how small they are. She said, "Don't worry, my pet, they'll develop in time." And I liked it when she grabbed and squeezed my tiny bottom cheeks. She said, "These too will round out delightfully." I didn't like it when she inserted a finger tip into my private parts and asked if I was still a virgin. I just blushed because the question was improper and unnecessary. So she asked me again, more directly: "Has a man ever put his thing in here?" Of course I replied no, but she said, "We'll have to check, won't we?"
She had me bend over and I began to think this must be what the inspection is all about, to make sure I am pure. She peeled apart my lips, and a rush of cool air made me realize how moist I was.
"You are dripping wet and your lips are swollen. You have been indulging in the solitary vice."
I could feel I was being accused of something, but I didn't understand what, so I made a denial. Her ladyship was not appeased, and she almost screamed out, "I will not tolerate my servants lying and abusing themselves. These are two faults I will whip out of you." She then rang the bell.
The housekeeper appeared promptly, looked me over as if to say she'd seen it all before and I was nothing special, and then awaited her ladyship's directions.
"Fetch the birch."
I just knew I was to be beaten, but for what? Now I understand how you must feel on those many occasions of unmerited chastisement.
The housekeeper returned with that splaying buddle of rods and twigs.
"Will you keep your position, or does Bertha have to hold you down?"
I assured her ladyship that I did not have to be restrained; after all, I was accustomed to discipline at the finishing school.
Her ladyship nodded for Bertha to depart, and I was positioned, arms out-stretched, with my hands clutching the edge of the mantlepiece.
I don't need to describe the birching. You of all people know what it feels like--a thousand tongues of fire alighting again and again. The pain was bearable, except when a rod coiled around to slash my hip, and except when some errant twigs snapped across those moist lips that seemed to have been the cause of my woe.
Her ladyship whipped away until the birch was spent, all the while fulminating against prevarication and the sin of Onan. When she'd exhausted both the rods and herself, she reclined on the ottoman and ordered me to crawl around on all fours picking up the far flung buds and twigs.
I left the drawing room with an admonition that is still ringing in my ears. Her ladyship said she intends to conduct regular inspections, and when she finds evidence of the solitary vice, she will apply the appropriate disciplinary measures.
Oh, my dearest Henrietta, I wish you were here to explain to me how I am at fault. What is the solitary vice? Maybe it's really an imaginary vice, a pretext for her ladyship to whip me, just as horrid Miss Beacham loves to whip you. I don't think I'd mind that so much, though, as long as you were here to comfort me afterwards. I will accept a few more birchings and then ask her ladyship if you could be permitted to join us.
Your ever affectionate Tessara
Friday, April 17, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Dana's Lunchtime Story
Copyright by Mael DelaVara
Dana sat down to lunch pulsating with exultation. At 36 she was returning to college, and the admissions interview had gone so well her body quivered with the heedless passion of a twenty-one year old.
"Yeah, he said, 'Do you want to play?" The words came from the Redhead the next table over.
"What do you think he meant?" Those words came from the Blonde, whose eyes betrayed a keen interest in anything salacious.
Dana leaned to her right to catch more of the conversation.
"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," continued the Redhead, impatient at the question. "I was at the frat, like, last night, and it wasn't a real party or anything, but there was beer and a bunch of people. And this guy comes up, and he's got this ping pong racket."
"What did he look like?" The Blonde could not resist asking.
"He was cute, in a rugged sort of way. He didn't look much like a college kid. More a construction worker. His neck and arms were, like, sunburned, and he had these really big hands, and the nails were a mess."
"Maybe he's got a job off campus," the Blonde volunteered.
"Anyway." The Redhead dismissed the interruption. "I said, 'sure,' and then you know what he said?"
The Blonde obviously didn't, but she was getting the sense her contributions to the conversation were not welcome, so she said nothing.
The Redhead took the silence as a cue to continue. "Well, like, he said in the frat we play for forfeits."
"What's that," the Blonde asked. The question was irresistable.
Dana leaned so far in the direction of the exchange that her elbow almost slipped off the edge of the table.
"Well, the loser gets a number of whacks, same number as the amount of points they lose by."
Dana felt a familiar moistening and throbbing.
"Of course you walked away," the Blonde said with conviction.
"No," the Redhead corrected her. "We played ping pong."
"Oh my God," yelled the Blonde, drawing the attention of everyone in the dining room. She then leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "So then what happened?"
Dana was straining to hear the conversation, but the Redhead resumed at her regular volume.
"Well of course I lost. I can't play ping pong. And as I was losing, more and more people were gathering around the table. And then I think, like, that's when I began to lose more than I should have."
"You mean you wanted to be spanked." The Blonde was incredulous.
"I dunno. I began to like the idea of showing my butt to everyone. I was wearing those tight shorts, you know the ones we got on sale a few weeks ago, and I look good in those when I bend over. And I kinda liked the idea of being overpowered by this strong guy with people watching. Kinda like having sex in public but not having sex in public if that makes any sense."
Dana began to wish she'd used a panty liner.
"So he spanked you." The Blonde was eager for the story to continue. "And with the table tennis paddle. That must have hurt like hell."
"No, it wasn't like that." The Redhead struggled to regain control of the narrative. "He made me an offer."
The Blonde narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
"He said that the forfeit was usually given over clothing with the ping pong paddle, but if I pulled down my shorts and panties, he'd use his hand instead."
"You didn't," the Blonde screamed, once again causing heads to turn.
The Redhead simply nodded in response.
Dana began to squeeze her thighs together in a slow rhythm.
The Blonde was at a loss for words, so the Redhead began answering the unasked questions.
"The worst part was, you know, I hadn't shaved, like, down there in two or three days, and you know how bright that hair is against my pale skin. That was kinda embarrassing. I could tell people were looking at that."
"Yes, but what about the spanking." The Blonde was impatient to know what she did not know.
The spanking really hurt. His hand was like a bear's paw. But I wanted to show everyone, especially him, that I could take it. And so I never yelled out or flinched. I stuck my butt out more and more with each blow, and when I did that it was like the burning heat seemed to pass through my pelvis straight to my clit."
Dana almost passed out in a paroxysm of bliss.
"She's listening," the Blonde whispered loudly, with a sidelong glance at Dana.
The Redhead smiled knowingly, and getting up said, "I'm late for class anyway."
Dana sat down to lunch pulsating with exultation. At 36 she was returning to college, and the admissions interview had gone so well her body quivered with the heedless passion of a twenty-one year old.
"Yeah, he said, 'Do you want to play?" The words came from the Redhead the next table over.
"What do you think he meant?" Those words came from the Blonde, whose eyes betrayed a keen interest in anything salacious.
Dana leaned to her right to catch more of the conversation.
"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," continued the Redhead, impatient at the question. "I was at the frat, like, last night, and it wasn't a real party or anything, but there was beer and a bunch of people. And this guy comes up, and he's got this ping pong racket."
"What did he look like?" The Blonde could not resist asking.
"He was cute, in a rugged sort of way. He didn't look much like a college kid. More a construction worker. His neck and arms were, like, sunburned, and he had these really big hands, and the nails were a mess."
"Maybe he's got a job off campus," the Blonde volunteered.
"Anyway." The Redhead dismissed the interruption. "I said, 'sure,' and then you know what he said?"
The Blonde obviously didn't, but she was getting the sense her contributions to the conversation were not welcome, so she said nothing.
The Redhead took the silence as a cue to continue. "Well, like, he said in the frat we play for forfeits."
"What's that," the Blonde asked. The question was irresistable.
Dana leaned so far in the direction of the exchange that her elbow almost slipped off the edge of the table.
"Well, the loser gets a number of whacks, same number as the amount of points they lose by."
Dana felt a familiar moistening and throbbing.
"Of course you walked away," the Blonde said with conviction.
"No," the Redhead corrected her. "We played ping pong."
"Oh my God," yelled the Blonde, drawing the attention of everyone in the dining room. She then leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "So then what happened?"
Dana was straining to hear the conversation, but the Redhead resumed at her regular volume.
"Well of course I lost. I can't play ping pong. And as I was losing, more and more people were gathering around the table. And then I think, like, that's when I began to lose more than I should have."
"You mean you wanted to be spanked." The Blonde was incredulous.
"I dunno. I began to like the idea of showing my butt to everyone. I was wearing those tight shorts, you know the ones we got on sale a few weeks ago, and I look good in those when I bend over. And I kinda liked the idea of being overpowered by this strong guy with people watching. Kinda like having sex in public but not having sex in public if that makes any sense."
Dana began to wish she'd used a panty liner.
"So he spanked you." The Blonde was eager for the story to continue. "And with the table tennis paddle. That must have hurt like hell."
"No, it wasn't like that." The Redhead struggled to regain control of the narrative. "He made me an offer."
The Blonde narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
"He said that the forfeit was usually given over clothing with the ping pong paddle, but if I pulled down my shorts and panties, he'd use his hand instead."
"You didn't," the Blonde screamed, once again causing heads to turn.
The Redhead simply nodded in response.
Dana began to squeeze her thighs together in a slow rhythm.
The Blonde was at a loss for words, so the Redhead began answering the unasked questions.
"The worst part was, you know, I hadn't shaved, like, down there in two or three days, and you know how bright that hair is against my pale skin. That was kinda embarrassing. I could tell people were looking at that."
"Yes, but what about the spanking." The Blonde was impatient to know what she did not know.
The spanking really hurt. His hand was like a bear's paw. But I wanted to show everyone, especially him, that I could take it. And so I never yelled out or flinched. I stuck my butt out more and more with each blow, and when I did that it was like the burning heat seemed to pass through my pelvis straight to my clit."
Dana almost passed out in a paroxysm of bliss.
"She's listening," the Blonde whispered loudly, with a sidelong glance at Dana.
The Redhead smiled knowingly, and getting up said, "I'm late for class anyway."
Sunday, March 29, 2009
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 11
Copyright Mael DelaVara
The morning just hasn't gone as planned, Audrey thought, as she made another pot of coffee. She'd expected that Michael would come. They'd chat and, without prompting, he'd admit that he'd been masturbating. Then she'd take him over her knee and they would have a long discussion about his failings, punctuated by a liberal application of the Vermont bath brush. He'd spend some time in the corner reflecting on the error of his ways. Then she'd hug and forgive him, and they'd go on to enjoy lunch together.
But it was now almost lunchtime, and the salad was already made, yet the bath brush remained in her bedroom, and its usurper looked insubstantial. Why didn't she cut two, better still, three switches, Audrey remonstrated with herself.
She placed a cup of coffee and a plate of crackers in front of Michael, picked up the switch, and went into the bathroom.
Michael suddenly felt like a schoolboy being mothered through his homework. He nibbled on a cracker and heard the tub being filled. No, that's not possible, he reasoned, anxiously sniffing his armpits. She can't mean to bathe me. But then the water stopped running and Audrey came out of the bathroom without the switch and opened the opposite door leading to the basement.
Michael heard a laundry hamper being dragged, a lid slamming shut, the scraping of a chair across the floor, and then silence.
"How many strokes did your Aunt give you?" Audrey had appeared noiselessly behind him and startled him into misspelling her name.
"Twelve. It was twelve," he replied, as he carefully made a correction.
"Well, you're a big boy now," Audrey said almost reassuringly. "You're three times as old as when your Aunt whipped you, so you need three times as many strokes. I think thirty-six strokes is most reasonable."
Michael's handwriting worsened appreciably.
"But we could make this interesting," Audrey added with a calculating smile.
She went to the drawer that had held the sheaf of paper, took out a pack of cards and a pair of dice, weighed the choice before her, and then put the cards back in the drawer and the dice in front of Michael.
"I said you deserve thirty six strokes. And you know you do. But you could let fate decide how bad you've been. Let's say you have to take again the twelve strokes your Aunt gave you, and we add to that the two numbers you throw with the dice."
"You mean if I throw two ones, I'd get only two extra strokes, fourteen in all." Michael's eyes brightened at these odds.
"No, silly. You'd get only thirteen. You really want that extra stroke.?"
Michael did not understand this new math.
"The two numbers get multiplied," Audrey explained. She rolled the dice. "See, here we've got a 4 and a 2. Multiplied, that is 8. And added to the 12 you're due, that makes 20 strokes. Here, you have a go. This isn't for real. It's a trial run."
Michael rolled the dice. There was a 3 and a 4.
"So 3 times 4 is 12, plus 12, making that 24 strokes," Audrey said triumphantly. "So what do you want to do? Settle for 36 strokes, or take your chance with the dice?"
Michael was paralyzed with indecision.
"How many lines do you have left?"
"Only five."
"Finish, and then decide." Audrey went to pour herself a coffee.
The rhythm of writing Audrey's phrase created in Michael a calm confidence.
"I'm done," he proclaimed, "and I'm going to roll the dice."
Audrey looked over his lines. The handwriting ranged from bad to atrocious. He deserves a spanking just for his poor penmanship, she thought to herself. But then she was also to blame because she had not set clear expectations and warned of the consequences of failure. She frowned, as much at herself as at what she was holding.
"OK, roll the dice."
Michael snatched the dice and rushed to hurl them when Audrey grabbed him by the arm and asked, "Don't you want to say a little prayer first?"
Michael looked puzzled.
There's so much we don't know about each other, Audrey thought. "Do you pray?" she inquired.
"Kinda." Michael wasn't sure what kind of answer Audrey wanted to hear.
"Well now would be a good time," Audrey smirked.
Michael bowed his head for a second in a show of piety and then rolled. He got a 1 and a 5. But before he could congratulate himself on his good fortune, he saw that Audrey was already standing outside the bathroom door, dripping switch in hand.
"Bring your lines," she ordered. "We're going to conduct your punishment in the basement."
The morning just hasn't gone as planned, Audrey thought, as she made another pot of coffee. She'd expected that Michael would come. They'd chat and, without prompting, he'd admit that he'd been masturbating. Then she'd take him over her knee and they would have a long discussion about his failings, punctuated by a liberal application of the Vermont bath brush. He'd spend some time in the corner reflecting on the error of his ways. Then she'd hug and forgive him, and they'd go on to enjoy lunch together.
But it was now almost lunchtime, and the salad was already made, yet the bath brush remained in her bedroom, and its usurper looked insubstantial. Why didn't she cut two, better still, three switches, Audrey remonstrated with herself.
She placed a cup of coffee and a plate of crackers in front of Michael, picked up the switch, and went into the bathroom.
Michael suddenly felt like a schoolboy being mothered through his homework. He nibbled on a cracker and heard the tub being filled. No, that's not possible, he reasoned, anxiously sniffing his armpits. She can't mean to bathe me. But then the water stopped running and Audrey came out of the bathroom without the switch and opened the opposite door leading to the basement.
Michael heard a laundry hamper being dragged, a lid slamming shut, the scraping of a chair across the floor, and then silence.
"How many strokes did your Aunt give you?" Audrey had appeared noiselessly behind him and startled him into misspelling her name.
"Twelve. It was twelve," he replied, as he carefully made a correction.
"Well, you're a big boy now," Audrey said almost reassuringly. "You're three times as old as when your Aunt whipped you, so you need three times as many strokes. I think thirty-six strokes is most reasonable."
Michael's handwriting worsened appreciably.
"But we could make this interesting," Audrey added with a calculating smile.
She went to the drawer that had held the sheaf of paper, took out a pack of cards and a pair of dice, weighed the choice before her, and then put the cards back in the drawer and the dice in front of Michael.
"I said you deserve thirty six strokes. And you know you do. But you could let fate decide how bad you've been. Let's say you have to take again the twelve strokes your Aunt gave you, and we add to that the two numbers you throw with the dice."
"You mean if I throw two ones, I'd get only two extra strokes, fourteen in all." Michael's eyes brightened at these odds.
"No, silly. You'd get only thirteen. You really want that extra stroke.?"
Michael did not understand this new math.
"The two numbers get multiplied," Audrey explained. She rolled the dice. "See, here we've got a 4 and a 2. Multiplied, that is 8. And added to the 12 you're due, that makes 20 strokes. Here, you have a go. This isn't for real. It's a trial run."
Michael rolled the dice. There was a 3 and a 4.
"So 3 times 4 is 12, plus 12, making that 24 strokes," Audrey said triumphantly. "So what do you want to do? Settle for 36 strokes, or take your chance with the dice?"
Michael was paralyzed with indecision.
"How many lines do you have left?"
"Only five."
"Finish, and then decide." Audrey went to pour herself a coffee.
The rhythm of writing Audrey's phrase created in Michael a calm confidence.
"I'm done," he proclaimed, "and I'm going to roll the dice."
Audrey looked over his lines. The handwriting ranged from bad to atrocious. He deserves a spanking just for his poor penmanship, she thought to herself. But then she was also to blame because she had not set clear expectations and warned of the consequences of failure. She frowned, as much at herself as at what she was holding.
"OK, roll the dice."
Michael snatched the dice and rushed to hurl them when Audrey grabbed him by the arm and asked, "Don't you want to say a little prayer first?"
Michael looked puzzled.
There's so much we don't know about each other, Audrey thought. "Do you pray?" she inquired.
"Kinda." Michael wasn't sure what kind of answer Audrey wanted to hear.
"Well now would be a good time," Audrey smirked.
Michael bowed his head for a second in a show of piety and then rolled. He got a 1 and a 5. But before he could congratulate himself on his good fortune, he saw that Audrey was already standing outside the bathroom door, dripping switch in hand.
"Bring your lines," she ordered. "We're going to conduct your punishment in the basement."
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 10
Copyright Mael DelaVara
The willow with its deeply fissured trunk sunk deep into a bank that contained an energetic stream. It was early spring. Hints of forsythia hung in the air. Bare trees formed a lattice against the crisp blue sky. Crocus leaves poked through the grass with a thrust of anticipation. And crows exchanged callous caws as if in knowing conversation about the impending event. Michael felt his stomach churning.
"Don't worry," Audrey said with a mischievous smile. "This hand pruner has a capacity of less than half an inch. That's about the diameter of your little finger. So we won't be cutting a switch that is too thick now, will we?"
Michael did not see the humor in the situation.
Audrey reached for a straight branch some three to four feet long and was just about to cut it at the base when she suddenly turned and handed Michael the clippers.
"You do the honors."
Michael's cut was not clean, and as she yanked the limb away from the tree, the bark curled up at the sliced end.
The sap must have started to flow, she thought to herself. Without thinking, she began to slowly and easily peel off the bark in straight narrow pieces.
"Besides, it won't hurt that much because willow is a natural pain-killer. Did you know that?"
Michael did not know that, so he was even less amused than he otherwise would have been.
"There was this famous physician in ancient Greece, some five centuries before Christ. His name was Hippocrates, and he discovered that the bark of willow has a substance that reduces inflammation and soothes pain--like headache or toothache. But I'm sure it works just as well for sore bottoms."
Michael sensed that Audrey was mocking him.
"And that's the chemical that's in aspirin. Salycilic acid."
Michael felt a surge of resentment. Audrey was not only toying with him, turning his punishment into a piece of theater, she was also lording it over him with her superior knowledge, making him feel inadequate.
Audrey seemed not to notice, perhaps not to care, that Michael was bristling.
"You know Native Americans used to chew on willow bark for the same reasons we take aspirin. They wanted to get at this stuff here, see, the moist green inner bark. Perhaps I should give you some pieces to chew while you're being punished." Audrey was enjoying herself heedlessly.
Michael had a sudden urge to seize the branch and snap it across his knees, but he counted to five and then said quietly, "We don't have to do this."
"Oh?" Audrey was so taken aback that she could not elaborate a sentence, but she resumed stripping the bark with a determined energy.
"I love you," Michael pleaded. "I've learned my lesson. I won't do it again. You've got to know you have my heart."
He suddenly felt the point of the branch pressing into his crotch.
"But I don't have Little Michael," Audrey snapped, her eyes ablaze with anger at Michael's presumptuousness.
Michael was mortified. Audrey had conferred a name on what he had never named himself, and so she seemed to lay claim to what was indissolubly his, his most pleasurable possession.
Audrey was in no mood to concede. Thrusting the branch like a sword she said firmly, "I want you to yield me your sexuality as a gift. And you know you don't ask for gifts back. And you don't give them so you can borrow them again at your convenience. If you want to stay with me, Little Michael is mine. Unconditionally mine."
She paused. He's not making the obvious retort, she thought: gifts are not compelled.
"Of course," she resumed lightly, "I will take very good care of Little Michael." She lingered on the word 'little'.
Michael felt the branch pull back, and only then did he notice that it was completely peeled of bark and now looked only about half the diameter it had been. Audrey watched his face relax with relief.
They walked back in silence to the duplex. As they re-entered, Audrey guided Michael to the kitchen table on which she laid the freshly-stripped switch. From a cabinet drawer she retrieved a pen and a sheaf of paper, and on the top sheet she scribbled a few words.
"Michael," she said, "I want you to write out this phrase one hundred times, starting each repetition on a new line. That'll take you about four pages, but make sure you count the lines."
He looked at the phrase. It said, simply: "Little Michael belongs to Audrey."
The willow with its deeply fissured trunk sunk deep into a bank that contained an energetic stream. It was early spring. Hints of forsythia hung in the air. Bare trees formed a lattice against the crisp blue sky. Crocus leaves poked through the grass with a thrust of anticipation. And crows exchanged callous caws as if in knowing conversation about the impending event. Michael felt his stomach churning.
"Don't worry," Audrey said with a mischievous smile. "This hand pruner has a capacity of less than half an inch. That's about the diameter of your little finger. So we won't be cutting a switch that is too thick now, will we?"
Michael did not see the humor in the situation.
Audrey reached for a straight branch some three to four feet long and was just about to cut it at the base when she suddenly turned and handed Michael the clippers.
"You do the honors."
Michael's cut was not clean, and as she yanked the limb away from the tree, the bark curled up at the sliced end.
The sap must have started to flow, she thought to herself. Without thinking, she began to slowly and easily peel off the bark in straight narrow pieces.
"Besides, it won't hurt that much because willow is a natural pain-killer. Did you know that?"
Michael did not know that, so he was even less amused than he otherwise would have been.
"There was this famous physician in ancient Greece, some five centuries before Christ. His name was Hippocrates, and he discovered that the bark of willow has a substance that reduces inflammation and soothes pain--like headache or toothache. But I'm sure it works just as well for sore bottoms."
Michael sensed that Audrey was mocking him.
"And that's the chemical that's in aspirin. Salycilic acid."
Michael felt a surge of resentment. Audrey was not only toying with him, turning his punishment into a piece of theater, she was also lording it over him with her superior knowledge, making him feel inadequate.
Audrey seemed not to notice, perhaps not to care, that Michael was bristling.
"You know Native Americans used to chew on willow bark for the same reasons we take aspirin. They wanted to get at this stuff here, see, the moist green inner bark. Perhaps I should give you some pieces to chew while you're being punished." Audrey was enjoying herself heedlessly.
Michael had a sudden urge to seize the branch and snap it across his knees, but he counted to five and then said quietly, "We don't have to do this."
"Oh?" Audrey was so taken aback that she could not elaborate a sentence, but she resumed stripping the bark with a determined energy.
"I love you," Michael pleaded. "I've learned my lesson. I won't do it again. You've got to know you have my heart."
He suddenly felt the point of the branch pressing into his crotch.
"But I don't have Little Michael," Audrey snapped, her eyes ablaze with anger at Michael's presumptuousness.
Michael was mortified. Audrey had conferred a name on what he had never named himself, and so she seemed to lay claim to what was indissolubly his, his most pleasurable possession.
Audrey was in no mood to concede. Thrusting the branch like a sword she said firmly, "I want you to yield me your sexuality as a gift. And you know you don't ask for gifts back. And you don't give them so you can borrow them again at your convenience. If you want to stay with me, Little Michael is mine. Unconditionally mine."
She paused. He's not making the obvious retort, she thought: gifts are not compelled.
"Of course," she resumed lightly, "I will take very good care of Little Michael." She lingered on the word 'little'.
Michael felt the branch pull back, and only then did he notice that it was completely peeled of bark and now looked only about half the diameter it had been. Audrey watched his face relax with relief.
They walked back in silence to the duplex. As they re-entered, Audrey guided Michael to the kitchen table on which she laid the freshly-stripped switch. From a cabinet drawer she retrieved a pen and a sheaf of paper, and on the top sheet she scribbled a few words.
"Michael," she said, "I want you to write out this phrase one hundred times, starting each repetition on a new line. That'll take you about four pages, but make sure you count the lines."
He looked at the phrase. It said, simply: "Little Michael belongs to Audrey."
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 9
Copyright Mael DelaVara
Audrey and Michael sat in silence, taking in the revelation--indeed acknowledgment--that Michael tied spanking and sexual desire together in some way.
But exactly how, Audrey wondered.
"Did you ever ask a girlfriend to spank you," Audrey resumed.
"Well, no, I couldn't do that."
"Why not? I bet you asked for a blow-job." Once again, Audrey shocked herself at the vulgarity of her language. But the word matched the deed. Going down on a guy really was a lowering of herself, an act of debasement.
Fragments passed through her consciousness of conversations she'd had with her mom about sex. She was a precocious child, so she consistently asked about things long before her mom anticipated what she needed to know. But mom was always candid and helpful, so there was the time they sat around a scribbled sketch of the vulva, identifying and labeling the parts. Audrey recalled with a smile how she spent the next two years trying to reconcile that sketch with what she could see of herself. She wished she still had that scrap of paper.
Because Audrey was quick to ask questions, her mom got in the habit of never volunteering information, especially about sex, until one day when Audrey was in her mid twenties and changing boy friends as frequently as she changed her sheets.
"Do you want to know how you can tell if a guy really wants to please you," her mom had said out of the blue.
How does anyone respond to that kind of opening.
"You get him to give you oral sex when you want, as often as you want, for six months, and he gets no release in return. At the end of the six months you can have sex. But use a condom."
Audrey was shocked. Was this how mom had handled dad? She was pretty sure that dad was mom's only sexual partner. Or was mom casually handing on advice she'd read somewhere? Perhaps it was just a fantasy, the conversion of a longing into a recommendation.
Audrey looked over at Michael. Would he accept that arrangement, she wondered.
"So you've never been spanked since you were a boy," Audrey continued, "but it's something you've wanted."
"I like the idea of spanking, but I don't like pain." Michael surprised himself at his clarity.
"Would you endure pain for me?" Audrey asked quizzically.
Michael shifted nervously.
"Suppose I was your goddess and I demanded acts of atonement from devotees."
Michael looked puzzled.
"Do you know about the diamastigosis?"
Michael glanced uneasily at the bookshelves laden with serious-looking volumes.
"The dye-am-AS-ti-go-sis," Audrey repeated. "In ancient Greece there was a city-state called Sparta. They had a temple dedicated to Artemis Orthia. Artemis was the virgin goddess of the moon and hunting. The Romans called her Diana. In that temple, every ephebus--that's every young man--would be ritually whipped to satisfy the goddess. That's what the diamastigosis was. A harsh whipping. But the whippings were not just a reparation for some primordial wrong. They were also tests of endurance. Because Sparta was the great military power in the ancient world--they beat Athens in the Peloponnesian war. So the whippings also served to harden the young men, to make them better soldiers."
Audrey changed her tone from lecturer to counselor. "No one likes pain, except the rare masochist. But pain, lovingly applied and openly accepted, can help us grow. It can heal and teach."
Audrey noticed Michael's eyes begin to moisten, and she averted her gaze.
"Follow me." They went into the kitchen, but Audrey didn't quite know why they were there. Was it to have another cup of coffee, and this time she'd offer one to Michael? Or should she have him go through the drawers and select suitable implements? He would surely choose a wooden spoon. But how imaginative--indeed, how adventurous--would he be? Would he see the potential in a slotted spatula?
Through the kitchen window, Audrey glimpsed the besom broom she always kept upright to ward off evil spirits. She began to wonder, would Michael one day leap over that broom with her, crossing over the threshold into a new life, taking the leap of faith. He would be the ash shaft. She would be the bundle of birch twigs. But the twigs would be bound to the shaft by withy, those strong yet flexible stems of willow. Yes, that's what would tie them together. Willow . . . . a willow switch.
She fumbled through the drawer that held all the indefinables in her life and pulled out a hand pruner, the tool she used to trim her house plants.
"Let's get some fresh air," she said cheerily.
A few seconds later they were standing in front of an established weeping willow tree. Audrey squeezed the blades of the pruner as she anticipated making a cut.
Audrey and Michael sat in silence, taking in the revelation--indeed acknowledgment--that Michael tied spanking and sexual desire together in some way.
But exactly how, Audrey wondered.
"Did you ever ask a girlfriend to spank you," Audrey resumed.
"Well, no, I couldn't do that."
"Why not? I bet you asked for a blow-job." Once again, Audrey shocked herself at the vulgarity of her language. But the word matched the deed. Going down on a guy really was a lowering of herself, an act of debasement.
Fragments passed through her consciousness of conversations she'd had with her mom about sex. She was a precocious child, so she consistently asked about things long before her mom anticipated what she needed to know. But mom was always candid and helpful, so there was the time they sat around a scribbled sketch of the vulva, identifying and labeling the parts. Audrey recalled with a smile how she spent the next two years trying to reconcile that sketch with what she could see of herself. She wished she still had that scrap of paper.
Because Audrey was quick to ask questions, her mom got in the habit of never volunteering information, especially about sex, until one day when Audrey was in her mid twenties and changing boy friends as frequently as she changed her sheets.
"Do you want to know how you can tell if a guy really wants to please you," her mom had said out of the blue.
How does anyone respond to that kind of opening.
"You get him to give you oral sex when you want, as often as you want, for six months, and he gets no release in return. At the end of the six months you can have sex. But use a condom."
Audrey was shocked. Was this how mom had handled dad? She was pretty sure that dad was mom's only sexual partner. Or was mom casually handing on advice she'd read somewhere? Perhaps it was just a fantasy, the conversion of a longing into a recommendation.
Audrey looked over at Michael. Would he accept that arrangement, she wondered.
"So you've never been spanked since you were a boy," Audrey continued, "but it's something you've wanted."
"I like the idea of spanking, but I don't like pain." Michael surprised himself at his clarity.
"Would you endure pain for me?" Audrey asked quizzically.
Michael shifted nervously.
"Suppose I was your goddess and I demanded acts of atonement from devotees."
Michael looked puzzled.
"Do you know about the diamastigosis?"
Michael glanced uneasily at the bookshelves laden with serious-looking volumes.
"The dye-am-AS-ti-go-sis," Audrey repeated. "In ancient Greece there was a city-state called Sparta. They had a temple dedicated to Artemis Orthia. Artemis was the virgin goddess of the moon and hunting. The Romans called her Diana. In that temple, every ephebus--that's every young man--would be ritually whipped to satisfy the goddess. That's what the diamastigosis was. A harsh whipping. But the whippings were not just a reparation for some primordial wrong. They were also tests of endurance. Because Sparta was the great military power in the ancient world--they beat Athens in the Peloponnesian war. So the whippings also served to harden the young men, to make them better soldiers."
Audrey changed her tone from lecturer to counselor. "No one likes pain, except the rare masochist. But pain, lovingly applied and openly accepted, can help us grow. It can heal and teach."
Audrey noticed Michael's eyes begin to moisten, and she averted her gaze.
"Follow me." They went into the kitchen, but Audrey didn't quite know why they were there. Was it to have another cup of coffee, and this time she'd offer one to Michael? Or should she have him go through the drawers and select suitable implements? He would surely choose a wooden spoon. But how imaginative--indeed, how adventurous--would he be? Would he see the potential in a slotted spatula?
Through the kitchen window, Audrey glimpsed the besom broom she always kept upright to ward off evil spirits. She began to wonder, would Michael one day leap over that broom with her, crossing over the threshold into a new life, taking the leap of faith. He would be the ash shaft. She would be the bundle of birch twigs. But the twigs would be bound to the shaft by withy, those strong yet flexible stems of willow. Yes, that's what would tie them together. Willow . . . . a willow switch.
She fumbled through the drawer that held all the indefinables in her life and pulled out a hand pruner, the tool she used to trim her house plants.
"Let's get some fresh air," she said cheerily.
A few seconds later they were standing in front of an established weeping willow tree. Audrey squeezed the blades of the pruner as she anticipated making a cut.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 8
Copyright Mael DelaVara
Now that he was standing erect, Michael wanted to bolt, but his pants and underwear had him in a double bind around his ankles. He was unhappy at the pace of the morning's events. If there was going to be a spanking, let's just get it over with so that they could enjoy the promised dinner date.
"Sit, please." Michael found himself back in the armchair.
"Why did you come here today?" Audrey did not give Michael a chance to reply. "You know you were going to get a spanking. And a harsh one. Because you know how I feel about your jacking off."
Audrey surprised herself at the crudeness of her expression. She prided herself on always being a lady, and she ordinarily would have used a clinical term like masturbation or a euphemism like self-abuse. She began to worry that she did not have herself completely under control.
"Do you want a spanking?" She felt her face flushing. "Is this something that turns you on? I mean you do have a hard-on." Once again she slipped into language coarser than she would typically use.
Michael's blush was deeper than hers, and in an attempt to conceal it, he looked down at his bulge and said, "I like you; I don't like to be spanked."
Audrey was not convinced. "Were you ever spanked as a child?"
"Well, every toddler gets a tap on the butt now and then. But I don't remember that."
Audrey had begun to notice an evasiveness in Michael's character. It was not an attractive trait.
"Do you remember any spanking from your childhood?" Audrey's lips curled expectantly.
"Well, I was whipped once by my aunt."
"How old were you?"
"Jeez, eleven or twelve, I suppose."
"And what for?"
"O, my cousin got me into trouble."
"What were you boys up to?"
"No, no, it was Lizzie."
Audrey's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What were you doing with Lizzie?"
"Well, I was in her room and she screamed."
Audrey was becoming irritated with Michael's habit of answering her questions as if he was a defendant in court proceedings, telling the truth but not the whole truth.
"Why did she scream?"
Michael shuffled his feet. "Well, a boy at school told me that women had, you know, hair down there, just like men, and I wanted to see if it was true."
Audrey clenched her teeth to suppress a burst of laughter. "Well, did you see anything?"
"No, no. Lizzie screamed and my Aunt came in and whipped me."
"How?"
Michael was taken aback at the specificity of the question. After all, a whipping was a whipping. It was no big deal.
"She had a switch."
"Did she pull down your pants?"
"Yes."
"Right in front of Lizzie."
"Yes"
"That must have been embarrassing."
"I suppose so. I didn't think about it at the time. It all happened so quickly."
"How many strokes did you get?"
"Ten, no it was twelve."
Audrey paused in her questioning and began to look for a way to get Michael to bare his soul.
"How long did the marks last?"
Michael was reluctant to answer.
"You must have looked at them," Audrey insisted. "And what were you doing when you looked at them?"
"About two weeks." Michael's answer was lagging one question behind.
"And what were you doing while you were examining the marks," Audrey persisted.
"I was playing with myself," Michael confessed.
Now that he was standing erect, Michael wanted to bolt, but his pants and underwear had him in a double bind around his ankles. He was unhappy at the pace of the morning's events. If there was going to be a spanking, let's just get it over with so that they could enjoy the promised dinner date.
"Sit, please." Michael found himself back in the armchair.
"Why did you come here today?" Audrey did not give Michael a chance to reply. "You know you were going to get a spanking. And a harsh one. Because you know how I feel about your jacking off."
Audrey surprised herself at the crudeness of her expression. She prided herself on always being a lady, and she ordinarily would have used a clinical term like masturbation or a euphemism like self-abuse. She began to worry that she did not have herself completely under control.
"Do you want a spanking?" She felt her face flushing. "Is this something that turns you on? I mean you do have a hard-on." Once again she slipped into language coarser than she would typically use.
Michael's blush was deeper than hers, and in an attempt to conceal it, he looked down at his bulge and said, "I like you; I don't like to be spanked."
Audrey was not convinced. "Were you ever spanked as a child?"
"Well, every toddler gets a tap on the butt now and then. But I don't remember that."
Audrey had begun to notice an evasiveness in Michael's character. It was not an attractive trait.
"Do you remember any spanking from your childhood?" Audrey's lips curled expectantly.
"Well, I was whipped once by my aunt."
"How old were you?"
"Jeez, eleven or twelve, I suppose."
"And what for?"
"O, my cousin got me into trouble."
"What were you boys up to?"
"No, no, it was Lizzie."
Audrey's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What were you doing with Lizzie?"
"Well, I was in her room and she screamed."
Audrey was becoming irritated with Michael's habit of answering her questions as if he was a defendant in court proceedings, telling the truth but not the whole truth.
"Why did she scream?"
Michael shuffled his feet. "Well, a boy at school told me that women had, you know, hair down there, just like men, and I wanted to see if it was true."
Audrey clenched her teeth to suppress a burst of laughter. "Well, did you see anything?"
"No, no. Lizzie screamed and my Aunt came in and whipped me."
"How?"
Michael was taken aback at the specificity of the question. After all, a whipping was a whipping. It was no big deal.
"She had a switch."
"Did she pull down your pants?"
"Yes."
"Right in front of Lizzie."
"Yes"
"That must have been embarrassing."
"I suppose so. I didn't think about it at the time. It all happened so quickly."
"How many strokes did you get?"
"Ten, no it was twelve."
Audrey paused in her questioning and began to look for a way to get Michael to bare his soul.
"How long did the marks last?"
Michael was reluctant to answer.
"You must have looked at them," Audrey insisted. "And what were you doing when you looked at them?"
"About two weeks." Michael's answer was lagging one question behind.
"And what were you doing while you were examining the marks," Audrey persisted.
"I was playing with myself," Michael confessed.
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 7
Copyright Mael DelaVara
Audrey had forgotten one other thing: a towel. She was uncomfortable that nothing came between Michael's nakedness and her skirt. She was also unhappy at the position he'd assumed. His forearms carried his upper body weight, his feet were firmly on the ground, and his legs were straight and rigid, so he was arched over her lap as if he was ready to start pumping.
"Relax," she said, tapping the back of his thighs to urge him to bend at the knees and lie down more passively.
Her fingertips traced the mounds as if she were trying out the keys on an unfamiliar piano. The skin was creamy soft--until goosebumps popped up.
Audrey cupped her right palm over the peak of Michael's right globe. The fit was perfect, as if her hand had been born for this . . . . Well, this what? All the obvious words could not do justice to the delicious spectacle before her. It was a pair of buttocks only to the extent that it was lithely muscled. It was a bottom only to the extent that it was soft and shapely. It was an ass only to the extent that it invited spanking. But a word more exotic was needed to capture the mysterious allure, to account for her moistening excitement.
"Nates."
Michael half-turned at the sound and became aware of how penitentially prickly Audrey's skirt was against his thighs and the source of his most reliable pleasure.
Audrey ignored him and began mouthing the word silently, bouncing the tip of her tongue against the ridge of her upper teeth, as if she was taste-testing a very fine wine. "Nay-tease, Nay-tease."
She fixed her gaze on those nates, a blank canvas that called for coloring, an invitation to produce what would look like an abstract painting. As a girl she had been hit by a fast-moving baseball on the front of her left thigh, and for some three to four weeks later, she'd had her own private show of abstract art as she watched with fascination the bruise effloresce from black to purple and then to a kaleidoscope of blues, greens, yellows, almost every hue you could think of--but not red.
Red. Hmmm. A background wash of shades from pink to crimson, and a foreground of stripes crossing in intricate patterns. Maybe, just maybe, one of these days, Michael would come to give himself to her so completely that he would consent to be used purely for her satisfaction. This would happen infrequently, of course. She would not abuse the privilege. But every few months it would be so freeing, so cleansing, to experience an hour or two of complete abandon. This would be all about her. It would not be punishment, where there would be a predictable relationship between the offense and the chastisement. Michael would get to know that if he broke a certain rule, the consequence would be a certain implement and certain number of strokes. Nor would it be about discipline, one of those lengthy monthly sessions when Michael would be whipped not for any particular act of wrong-doing but for the flaws in his nature. During discipline, the intent would not be to have him pay the penalty for a transgression, but to have him undergo a correction, to reshape his character through scolding and a diligent application of, O yes, it would have to be the cane.
How he will hate those discipline sessions, thought Audrey, because they will seem so unjust, with no immediate connection to how he behaves moment to moment. But he will not understand because he will be reluctant to see that any particular offense--any act, for example, of self-abuse--is rooted in an unhealthy and destructive flaw of character, and that flaw needs to be whipped out of him.
But he might, Audrey speculated, tolerate more the sessions that would be for my pleasure alone. Especially if he really loves me. It would make sense to him that every three months or so I have a build-up of stress so intolerable that the only satisfying release would be . . . . Well, he would find out.
Maybe they could build a spanking bench together, one that could be disassembled and hidden away in a closet until it made its rare appearance. It would have to be a kneeling bench-- Audrey glanced again at Michael's bottom and legs--because she did not want his bottom clenching until the crack was barely visible.No, those mounds should be dancing and writhing freely under her incessant blows. And of course there would be restraints, of the softest leather, the only hint of gentleness: two for the wrists, two for the thighs, and an especially wide one securing the lower back. He would be her Spartan boy ritually flogged at the Temple of Artemis Orthia, and on those sacred occasions, she would care little for what he could endure, and even less about what he thought he could endure . . . .
Audrey felt a small pressure against the inside of her left thigh, and she became aware that she was not alone in feeling aroused. She clenched Michael's cheeks in self-reproach. She had promised herself that she would not use spanking as a means to self-gratification.
"Get up."
Michael arose reluctantly.
Audrey had forgotten one other thing: a towel. She was uncomfortable that nothing came between Michael's nakedness and her skirt. She was also unhappy at the position he'd assumed. His forearms carried his upper body weight, his feet were firmly on the ground, and his legs were straight and rigid, so he was arched over her lap as if he was ready to start pumping.
"Relax," she said, tapping the back of his thighs to urge him to bend at the knees and lie down more passively.
Her fingertips traced the mounds as if she were trying out the keys on an unfamiliar piano. The skin was creamy soft--until goosebumps popped up.
Audrey cupped her right palm over the peak of Michael's right globe. The fit was perfect, as if her hand had been born for this . . . . Well, this what? All the obvious words could not do justice to the delicious spectacle before her. It was a pair of buttocks only to the extent that it was lithely muscled. It was a bottom only to the extent that it was soft and shapely. It was an ass only to the extent that it invited spanking. But a word more exotic was needed to capture the mysterious allure, to account for her moistening excitement.
"Nates."
Michael half-turned at the sound and became aware of how penitentially prickly Audrey's skirt was against his thighs and the source of his most reliable pleasure.
Audrey ignored him and began mouthing the word silently, bouncing the tip of her tongue against the ridge of her upper teeth, as if she was taste-testing a very fine wine. "Nay-tease, Nay-tease."
She fixed her gaze on those nates, a blank canvas that called for coloring, an invitation to produce what would look like an abstract painting. As a girl she had been hit by a fast-moving baseball on the front of her left thigh, and for some three to four weeks later, she'd had her own private show of abstract art as she watched with fascination the bruise effloresce from black to purple and then to a kaleidoscope of blues, greens, yellows, almost every hue you could think of--but not red.
Red. Hmmm. A background wash of shades from pink to crimson, and a foreground of stripes crossing in intricate patterns. Maybe, just maybe, one of these days, Michael would come to give himself to her so completely that he would consent to be used purely for her satisfaction. This would happen infrequently, of course. She would not abuse the privilege. But every few months it would be so freeing, so cleansing, to experience an hour or two of complete abandon. This would be all about her. It would not be punishment, where there would be a predictable relationship between the offense and the chastisement. Michael would get to know that if he broke a certain rule, the consequence would be a certain implement and certain number of strokes. Nor would it be about discipline, one of those lengthy monthly sessions when Michael would be whipped not for any particular act of wrong-doing but for the flaws in his nature. During discipline, the intent would not be to have him pay the penalty for a transgression, but to have him undergo a correction, to reshape his character through scolding and a diligent application of, O yes, it would have to be the cane.
How he will hate those discipline sessions, thought Audrey, because they will seem so unjust, with no immediate connection to how he behaves moment to moment. But he will not understand because he will be reluctant to see that any particular offense--any act, for example, of self-abuse--is rooted in an unhealthy and destructive flaw of character, and that flaw needs to be whipped out of him.
But he might, Audrey speculated, tolerate more the sessions that would be for my pleasure alone. Especially if he really loves me. It would make sense to him that every three months or so I have a build-up of stress so intolerable that the only satisfying release would be . . . . Well, he would find out.
Maybe they could build a spanking bench together, one that could be disassembled and hidden away in a closet until it made its rare appearance. It would have to be a kneeling bench-- Audrey glanced again at Michael's bottom and legs--because she did not want his bottom clenching until the crack was barely visible.No, those mounds should be dancing and writhing freely under her incessant blows. And of course there would be restraints, of the softest leather, the only hint of gentleness: two for the wrists, two for the thighs, and an especially wide one securing the lower back. He would be her Spartan boy ritually flogged at the Temple of Artemis Orthia, and on those sacred occasions, she would care little for what he could endure, and even less about what he thought he could endure . . . .
Audrey felt a small pressure against the inside of her left thigh, and she became aware that she was not alone in feeling aroused. She clenched Michael's cheeks in self-reproach. She had promised herself that she would not use spanking as a means to self-gratification.
"Get up."
Michael arose reluctantly.
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 6
Copyright Mael DelaVara
"Come over here, please." Audrey's voice broke into Michael's reverie.
He had found a measure of contentment in the corner. His anxiety over what Audrey intended for him was exorcised by the elaborate fantasy he had been weaving. He recoiled from real pain, but imagined pain and suffering was a reliable source of pleasurable calm.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a kingdom where women ruled and men obeyed. Michael knocked at the palace gate, but no one answered. It was a two hour trip back to the airport, and his cab had already left. He stepped back a few feet wondering if anyone in the upper floors of the palace tower would see him. But the sun glistened blindingly, and the air was cool for the time of year. The gate was large--two massive wooden doors surmounted by a lion's head. Ten minutes later, a hutch was drawn across, eyes he could not see assessed him, a door was opened just wide enough to admit him, and he found himself in a cobbled courtyard.
"Name?"
The curt question came from a stocky woman wearing knee-length black boots, a leather skirt, a white blouse, and some kind of armband on her left arm.
Michael gave his name.
"Follow me."
Michael did, to a small building on his right, and through a shop filled with more BDSM equipment than anyone could possibly use. He ended up in an office bare of anything except a table, a chair, a computer, and a filing cabinet.
"Passport."
Michael surrendered his passport. It was examined, and then returned to him.
"Payment."
Michael handed over the hundred dollars he had expected to pay. He had come for Spanking Day. The only reason he was there was that he was a member of the male race and, for that reason alone, deserved punishment.
"Follow me."
Michael was lead across the courtyard, through the main door of the palace, and down a long corridor, at the end of which, on the right, was the check-in room.
It was clearly not a reception room. The stocky woman demanded his passport, his money, any other form of identification, his watch and other valuables, placed them in a large brown envelope, which she then sealed.
"Sign"
The woman traced her finger over the seal. That's where Michael signed. The envelope was placed in a safe.
"Strip."
Michael had expected this, but he hesitated nevertheless. The woman came over and slapped his face. He had not expected that. He quickly got out of his clothes and they were unceremoniously thrown into a locker.
"Over there." The woman pointed to a scale that measured not just his weight but his height. She wrote down what she observed.
"Bend over." The women gestured toward a saw horse. Michael did as ordered, and before he had taken just one deep breath, he had received twenty-five strokes of the cane. His knuckles were white; his bottom was red.
"Follow me," the woman said.
They exited through the back of the palace, across a well-manicured courtyard, with a riding stable, pillory, and whipping post to the left, and toward a long building ahead of them. Up a few flights of stairs, they were in a hall in the attic.
There were already five men kneeling in the cavernous space, all with bottoms as well-striped as Michael's, and one of whom was getting the thrashing of his life from a vixen with long blonde hair. She was flailing away at her victim, shifting from left hand to right, alternating fore strokes and back strokes, hitting her target from above and below, any which-way she pleased in an abandon of fury. Michael was mesmerized.
"Who's next," the long-haired blonde said, now sweaty and disheveled. The men greeted her question with a nervous shuffling of knees. Michael found himself standing up and moving forward as if he were being filled with the spirit in some Pentecostal service.
"Spin the wheel," the blonde commanded with a smirk.
There it was. The wheel of bad luck. The wheel that would determine whether he got the minimum of 30 strokes or something approaching the maximum of 180.
Michael spun the wheel and heard a murmur--was it of relief or compassion--before he saw the number he had alighted upon. 60 strokes was his good--or was it bad--fortune.
"Now choose."
He was being directed to a table of implements. He had already received the cane, and he wanted something more sinuous--like a cane, but thinner, and cased in leather. He chose the dressage whip.
With each blow he stuck his bottom out further and higher, rising to meet the blows in a synchronized motion with the tossing blonde hair, and exulting when a right breast heedlessly freed itself from an overly constricting blouse.
And then he felt a drop trail down his inner thigh, and he hoped it was just a bead of sweat, but maybe it was . . . .
"Come over here now," Audrey said, with no trace of anger at having to repeat herself.
Michael looked down. His erection was gone.
He turned and immediately cupped his hands over his genitals.
His hands look just like a fig leaf, Audrey thought, and she suppressed a giggle only by recalling an episode from her junior year abroad. She had rounded out her musical education in London by taking a few art history classes. They were studying Michelangelo's famous statue of David, and the professor had taken them to the Victoria and Albert Museum to see a massive plaster copy of the original. There David stood in all his glory, leaving nothing to the imagination. The most interesting part of the lecture, however, had little to do with Michelangelo and everything to do with the copy. The professor reached into a box behind the statue and retrieved a large plaster cast of a fig leaf. Apparently the fig leaf was routinely placed over David's private parts to spare the delicate sensibilities of righteous women. It was removed only for the benefit of male visitors unencumbered by the company of the fairer sex.
Her own David, coyly covered with his own hand-made fig leaf, hobbled from the corner and stood by Audrey's right knee.
"Hands by your side," Audrey ordered, and Michael obeyed, blushing deeply as he saw that the part of him that had put him in this predicament was fully on display.
He is no longer aroused, Audrey noticed, and she wondered what he had been thinking during his time in the corner. She paused to give Michael the full benefit of his humiliation.
"Over my knee," she ordered, and only then did she remember she had left the Vermont bath brush in her bedroom.
"Come over here, please." Audrey's voice broke into Michael's reverie.
He had found a measure of contentment in the corner. His anxiety over what Audrey intended for him was exorcised by the elaborate fantasy he had been weaving. He recoiled from real pain, but imagined pain and suffering was a reliable source of pleasurable calm.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a kingdom where women ruled and men obeyed. Michael knocked at the palace gate, but no one answered. It was a two hour trip back to the airport, and his cab had already left. He stepped back a few feet wondering if anyone in the upper floors of the palace tower would see him. But the sun glistened blindingly, and the air was cool for the time of year. The gate was large--two massive wooden doors surmounted by a lion's head. Ten minutes later, a hutch was drawn across, eyes he could not see assessed him, a door was opened just wide enough to admit him, and he found himself in a cobbled courtyard.
"Name?"
The curt question came from a stocky woman wearing knee-length black boots, a leather skirt, a white blouse, and some kind of armband on her left arm.
Michael gave his name.
"Follow me."
Michael did, to a small building on his right, and through a shop filled with more BDSM equipment than anyone could possibly use. He ended up in an office bare of anything except a table, a chair, a computer, and a filing cabinet.
"Passport."
Michael surrendered his passport. It was examined, and then returned to him.
"Payment."
Michael handed over the hundred dollars he had expected to pay. He had come for Spanking Day. The only reason he was there was that he was a member of the male race and, for that reason alone, deserved punishment.
"Follow me."
Michael was lead across the courtyard, through the main door of the palace, and down a long corridor, at the end of which, on the right, was the check-in room.
It was clearly not a reception room. The stocky woman demanded his passport, his money, any other form of identification, his watch and other valuables, placed them in a large brown envelope, which she then sealed.
"Sign"
The woman traced her finger over the seal. That's where Michael signed. The envelope was placed in a safe.
"Strip."
Michael had expected this, but he hesitated nevertheless. The woman came over and slapped his face. He had not expected that. He quickly got out of his clothes and they were unceremoniously thrown into a locker.
"Over there." The woman pointed to a scale that measured not just his weight but his height. She wrote down what she observed.
"Bend over." The women gestured toward a saw horse. Michael did as ordered, and before he had taken just one deep breath, he had received twenty-five strokes of the cane. His knuckles were white; his bottom was red.
"Follow me," the woman said.
They exited through the back of the palace, across a well-manicured courtyard, with a riding stable, pillory, and whipping post to the left, and toward a long building ahead of them. Up a few flights of stairs, they were in a hall in the attic.
There were already five men kneeling in the cavernous space, all with bottoms as well-striped as Michael's, and one of whom was getting the thrashing of his life from a vixen with long blonde hair. She was flailing away at her victim, shifting from left hand to right, alternating fore strokes and back strokes, hitting her target from above and below, any which-way she pleased in an abandon of fury. Michael was mesmerized.
"Who's next," the long-haired blonde said, now sweaty and disheveled. The men greeted her question with a nervous shuffling of knees. Michael found himself standing up and moving forward as if he were being filled with the spirit in some Pentecostal service.
"Spin the wheel," the blonde commanded with a smirk.
There it was. The wheel of bad luck. The wheel that would determine whether he got the minimum of 30 strokes or something approaching the maximum of 180.
Michael spun the wheel and heard a murmur--was it of relief or compassion--before he saw the number he had alighted upon. 60 strokes was his good--or was it bad--fortune.
"Now choose."
He was being directed to a table of implements. He had already received the cane, and he wanted something more sinuous--like a cane, but thinner, and cased in leather. He chose the dressage whip.
With each blow he stuck his bottom out further and higher, rising to meet the blows in a synchronized motion with the tossing blonde hair, and exulting when a right breast heedlessly freed itself from an overly constricting blouse.
And then he felt a drop trail down his inner thigh, and he hoped it was just a bead of sweat, but maybe it was . . . .
"Come over here now," Audrey said, with no trace of anger at having to repeat herself.
Michael looked down. His erection was gone.
He turned and immediately cupped his hands over his genitals.
His hands look just like a fig leaf, Audrey thought, and she suppressed a giggle only by recalling an episode from her junior year abroad. She had rounded out her musical education in London by taking a few art history classes. They were studying Michelangelo's famous statue of David, and the professor had taken them to the Victoria and Albert Museum to see a massive plaster copy of the original. There David stood in all his glory, leaving nothing to the imagination. The most interesting part of the lecture, however, had little to do with Michelangelo and everything to do with the copy. The professor reached into a box behind the statue and retrieved a large plaster cast of a fig leaf. Apparently the fig leaf was routinely placed over David's private parts to spare the delicate sensibilities of righteous women. It was removed only for the benefit of male visitors unencumbered by the company of the fairer sex.
Her own David, coyly covered with his own hand-made fig leaf, hobbled from the corner and stood by Audrey's right knee.
"Hands by your side," Audrey ordered, and Michael obeyed, blushing deeply as he saw that the part of him that had put him in this predicament was fully on display.
He is no longer aroused, Audrey noticed, and she wondered what he had been thinking during his time in the corner. She paused to give Michael the full benefit of his humiliation.
"Over my knee," she ordered, and only then did she remember she had left the Vermont bath brush in her bedroom.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 5
Copyright Mael DelaVara
Michael's khaki's slipped down easily to his knees to reveal a bright red pair of briefs and clear evidence of sexual arousal. For a fleeting instance, he entertained the illusion that Audrey would not notice, but he saw her lean back as if she feared her eyes were about to be poked, and his face immediately flushed with the color of his underwear.
Audrey found herself caught between a giggle and a frown. The image of a fire truck with its ladder extended was accompanied by an inner monolog full of questions and anxiety. Was it possible that Michael derived some kind of sexual satisfaction from a spanking. And if he did, how would that be helping him. In applying discipline was she in danger of aiding and abetting his bad habit. And shouldn't she call it for what it was--an addiction. And then there were those briefs. They looked brand new. But had he put them through the laundry before wearing them for the first time. She grimaced. He might even ejaculate while lying over her lap.
Audrey stood up abruptly, grabbed Michael by his left shoulder, and shuffled him into the opposite corner.
"Clasp your fingers behind your neck," she ordered. "And I want your elbows touching each wall." Michael edged forward a few inches. "Now stay there until I say otherwise, and think about what's going to happen to you."
Not that Audrey knew herself. She went into the kitchen to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee and to consider at length what she should do next.
Audrey have never spanked anyone, but she had wanted to for as long as she could remember. As a girl, her favorite book was Little Women, but her favorite story was "Cupid and Chow Chow". How she and her mom would roll around giggling as they read it out loud to each other. Louisa May Alcott could be such a silly writer. The story was about a pretty boy whose mom called him Cupid because he loved so easily and was loved in return; and it was also about his little cousin Chow Chow, so named because she was a mixture of sweet and sour. Chow Chow dominated Cupid, she "rode over him rough-shed, quite trampled upon him in fact; and he bore it because he wanted her to like him." He was her "slave" and her "martyr," but he just wanted to be her husband.
One day Cupid suggested "Let's play house." So the two of them built a "palatial mansion" out of chairs. Then Chow Chow commanded, "Now, you must go off to your business while I tend to my work." Cupid obediently left the room.
And then came the sentence that gave the young Audrey such furtive excitement. All these years later she could recall it word for word, and she found herself silently mouthing:"Mrs. C bestirred herself at home in a most energetic manner, spanking her nine dolls until their cries rent the air, rattling the dishes with perilous activity."
"Spanking her nine dolls under their cries rent the air." Audrey remembered how, as a child alone in her room, she'd enact that moment from the story again and again. She'd line up her dolls and chastise each in turn, for they were always so willful and disobedient, and never learned their lesson.
The children's section of her library had only one other book by Mrs. Alcott--Little Men--and that didn't seem interesting at all. After all, everyone knew that boys ate cooties. So one day she ventured into the adult section. There she found lots of books by the woman who wrote the best book and the best story ever. All the volumes were shelved way above her height, so she had to jump up and snatch at whichever one she could catch. It was an old dusty copy of Alcott's Journals. The young Audrey flipped through it, surprised by how easy it was to read. It was like a very ordinary diary. And then she came to the entry for January 1884.
Now a grown-up, Audrey was reading the same entry, fortified by a cup of steaming coffee. She'd found a copy of that very volume in a used book store a few years back, and she did not even need to look at the words that were burned into her soul:
New Year's day is made memorable by my solemnly spanking my child. Miss C. and others assure me it is the only way to cure her willfulness. I doubt it; but knowing that mother's are usually too tender and blind, I corrected my dear in the old-fashioned way. She proudly says, "Do it, do it!" and when it is done is heartbroken at the idea of Aunt Wee-wee's giving her pain. Her bewilderment was pathetic and the effect, as I expected, a failure. Love is better, but also endless patience.
"My child" was Lulu, the daughter of her deceased sister May, a child Alcott took dotingly into her care. Miss C was Miss Cassall. "Aunt Wee-wee" was Lulu's affectionate name for Louisa May Alcott.
Audrey slammed down her coffee cup and tears began to well. Was Michael another Lulu, asking for a whooping. "Do it, do it!" And was she another Louisa May Alcott, willing to oblige. And would the outcome be resentment, bitterness, bewilderment--and failure.
With reluctance, Audrey went to check on Michael. He had stayed in position. In fact, he seemed preternaturally calm. Before she realized what she was doing, she had yanked down his briefs and returned to her seat on the couch. Michael gave no sign of alarm. He had clearly entered a zone of acceptance.
He must exercise, and a lot, Audrey thought, as her eyes tracked Michael from his feet to the area she had just bared. What's he involved in, she wondered. It couldn't be cycling: there's too much muscle. And it couldn't be running: those calves are over-developed. Maybe he plays soccer. Or maybe he's a hiker.
But who cares, she corrected herself. That is one panty-moistening bottom. And she found herself smiling as she wiped away the last traces of her tears.
Michael's khaki's slipped down easily to his knees to reveal a bright red pair of briefs and clear evidence of sexual arousal. For a fleeting instance, he entertained the illusion that Audrey would not notice, but he saw her lean back as if she feared her eyes were about to be poked, and his face immediately flushed with the color of his underwear.
Audrey found herself caught between a giggle and a frown. The image of a fire truck with its ladder extended was accompanied by an inner monolog full of questions and anxiety. Was it possible that Michael derived some kind of sexual satisfaction from a spanking. And if he did, how would that be helping him. In applying discipline was she in danger of aiding and abetting his bad habit. And shouldn't she call it for what it was--an addiction. And then there were those briefs. They looked brand new. But had he put them through the laundry before wearing them for the first time. She grimaced. He might even ejaculate while lying over her lap.
Audrey stood up abruptly, grabbed Michael by his left shoulder, and shuffled him into the opposite corner.
"Clasp your fingers behind your neck," she ordered. "And I want your elbows touching each wall." Michael edged forward a few inches. "Now stay there until I say otherwise, and think about what's going to happen to you."
Not that Audrey knew herself. She went into the kitchen to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee and to consider at length what she should do next.
Audrey have never spanked anyone, but she had wanted to for as long as she could remember. As a girl, her favorite book was Little Women, but her favorite story was "Cupid and Chow Chow". How she and her mom would roll around giggling as they read it out loud to each other. Louisa May Alcott could be such a silly writer. The story was about a pretty boy whose mom called him Cupid because he loved so easily and was loved in return; and it was also about his little cousin Chow Chow, so named because she was a mixture of sweet and sour. Chow Chow dominated Cupid, she "rode over him rough-shed, quite trampled upon him in fact; and he bore it because he wanted her to like him." He was her "slave" and her "martyr," but he just wanted to be her husband.
One day Cupid suggested "Let's play house." So the two of them built a "palatial mansion" out of chairs. Then Chow Chow commanded, "Now, you must go off to your business while I tend to my work." Cupid obediently left the room.
And then came the sentence that gave the young Audrey such furtive excitement. All these years later she could recall it word for word, and she found herself silently mouthing:"Mrs. C bestirred herself at home in a most energetic manner, spanking her nine dolls until their cries rent the air, rattling the dishes with perilous activity."
"Spanking her nine dolls under their cries rent the air." Audrey remembered how, as a child alone in her room, she'd enact that moment from the story again and again. She'd line up her dolls and chastise each in turn, for they were always so willful and disobedient, and never learned their lesson.
The children's section of her library had only one other book by Mrs. Alcott--Little Men--and that didn't seem interesting at all. After all, everyone knew that boys ate cooties. So one day she ventured into the adult section. There she found lots of books by the woman who wrote the best book and the best story ever. All the volumes were shelved way above her height, so she had to jump up and snatch at whichever one she could catch. It was an old dusty copy of Alcott's Journals. The young Audrey flipped through it, surprised by how easy it was to read. It was like a very ordinary diary. And then she came to the entry for January 1884.
Now a grown-up, Audrey was reading the same entry, fortified by a cup of steaming coffee. She'd found a copy of that very volume in a used book store a few years back, and she did not even need to look at the words that were burned into her soul:
New Year's day is made memorable by my solemnly spanking my child. Miss C. and others assure me it is the only way to cure her willfulness. I doubt it; but knowing that mother's are usually too tender and blind, I corrected my dear in the old-fashioned way. She proudly says, "Do it, do it!" and when it is done is heartbroken at the idea of Aunt Wee-wee's giving her pain. Her bewilderment was pathetic and the effect, as I expected, a failure. Love is better, but also endless patience.
"My child" was Lulu, the daughter of her deceased sister May, a child Alcott took dotingly into her care. Miss C was Miss Cassall. "Aunt Wee-wee" was Lulu's affectionate name for Louisa May Alcott.
Audrey slammed down her coffee cup and tears began to well. Was Michael another Lulu, asking for a whooping. "Do it, do it!" And was she another Louisa May Alcott, willing to oblige. And would the outcome be resentment, bitterness, bewilderment--and failure.
With reluctance, Audrey went to check on Michael. He had stayed in position. In fact, he seemed preternaturally calm. Before she realized what she was doing, she had yanked down his briefs and returned to her seat on the couch. Michael gave no sign of alarm. He had clearly entered a zone of acceptance.
He must exercise, and a lot, Audrey thought, as her eyes tracked Michael from his feet to the area she had just bared. What's he involved in, she wondered. It couldn't be cycling: there's too much muscle. And it couldn't be running: those calves are over-developed. Maybe he plays soccer. Or maybe he's a hiker.
But who cares, she corrected herself. That is one panty-moistening bottom. And she found herself smiling as she wiped away the last traces of her tears.
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 4
Copyright by Mael DelaVara
Chapter 4
On Saturday morning, Audrey opened her front door to be greeted, at eye-level, by an enormous bouquet of roses. Hiding behind the flowers was Michael.
"Please come in," she said to the bouquet.
Michael had dithered all week over what to bring Audrey. He found her both desirable and comforting, yet something about her quiet air of authority raised in him long-buried feelings of shame and guilt. Yes, he had a secret fantasy life that centered on spanking, and he would definitely enjoy a playful warming of his bottom as a prelude to something more intimate. But that's not what Audrey wanted. Certainly not the intimate part, at least until marriage. And the spanking she intended did not promise to be pleasurable. Even so, he rationalized, his self-gratification during the week did not really violate Audrey's prohibition. After all, he never fantasized about her while playing with himself. He could never do that and then look her in the eyes later. Indeed, he never created images of any real person during those languid moments of self-indulgence. The fantasies accompanying his busy hand were just that--fantasies, nothing more. And so he bought the biggest bunch of flowers he could find.
"What have you done?" Audrey said sharply as she jammed the roses into a vase empty of water.
She felt constricted. At home over the weekend she relished the loose comfort of fleece and flannel, but in anticipation of Michel's visit--and she just knew he would come after all--she had dressed with the formality befitting a chamber music recital. Black patent leather shoes raised her height and made her back stiff as a ramrod. Thick brown stockings concealed the graceful turn of her ankles. Her black skirt, tight-fitting and calf-length, forced her to move with a slight hobble. Her belt, wide as a cummerbund, shielded her loins and belly from prying eyes, while giving prominence to the pleasingly full breasts nestled behind a starched white blouse. The outfit was completed by a heavy, chain-like necklace, all the more prominent because her hair was coiled away from her neck into a well-fastened bun.
"I said, What did you do?" repeated Audrey, as she inched her way into the living room and sat right in the center of the couch. Michael followed, and then stopped, uncertain as to where he should sit. Audrey gestured toward an armchair on her right.
Tightly wound, Audrey snapped, "So you're going to tell me that even though you've masturbated every day, probably since you were a boy, you stopped this past week."
Michael was stunned at the absence of any small talk. He anticipated they would eventually get around to discussing his private hobby, but he thought the topic would arise much later in the morning's conversation, and by then he figured he could finesse the issue.
"Well, no," Michael began, and then, correcting himself, he continued, "It wasn't really masturbation."
Audrey felt her back stiffen, and with fiery eyes and raised voice she turned to Michael and snarled, "Don't you lie to me. Never lie to me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mmmm." Michael found his lips pressed together ready to say "Ma'am", but realizing how foolish that would sound he mumbled Audrey's name.
"So, did you masturbate this week?" Audrey was relentless.
"Yes." Michael's reply was barely audible.
"Speak up," demanded Audrey.
For the first time, Michael felt anger toward the woman he loved. She was forcing him to say out loud--to name, to acknowledge, to own--the very habit that gave him so much pleasure but that also brought him a secret shame.
Checking himself, he said, quietly and clearly, "Yes, I masturbated."
Audrey felt her breathing relax and her posture droop. She inclined toward Michael as if she were a priest hearing confession.
"I will help you," she said kindly. "I will help you become a better man. And that would be good for us."
Michael glanced up at the word 'us'. He like the sound of it. Then finding Audrey's intense gaze too much to take, he sought out the rug as a restful object for his eyes.
"But you have to want this," continued Audrey. "You have to open up, to accept the guidance I am offering you. You are free to leave at any time, but as long as you are with me, I expect you to obey."
"I don't want to leave," Michael ventured.
Audrey bit her lower lip. She would have preferred a more affirmative response, an express wish to stay. But these were early days, she reassured herself.
With a tightened jaw she asked, "What did I say would happen if you masturbated?"
Michael surprised himself by meeting Audrey's eyes as he replied, "You said I'd get a spanking."
Once again Audrey was disappointed. She had hoped for a less impersonal response. In fact, she wanted Michael to make explicit that she, yes she alone, would administer the punishment. O why didn't he say, "You said you'd spank me"?
Michael looked at Audrey with puzzled anticipation.
"Come over here," she said, tapping her right knee with her index finger.
Michael got up out of his armchair with the graceless lurch of a man more than twice his age.
"Stand there," commanded Audrey, and Michael tingled as her right knee brushed against his left leg.
Audrey noticed her hands were clammy and trembling as she reached for the buckle on Michael's belt.
Chapter 4
On Saturday morning, Audrey opened her front door to be greeted, at eye-level, by an enormous bouquet of roses. Hiding behind the flowers was Michael.
"Please come in," she said to the bouquet.
Michael had dithered all week over what to bring Audrey. He found her both desirable and comforting, yet something about her quiet air of authority raised in him long-buried feelings of shame and guilt. Yes, he had a secret fantasy life that centered on spanking, and he would definitely enjoy a playful warming of his bottom as a prelude to something more intimate. But that's not what Audrey wanted. Certainly not the intimate part, at least until marriage. And the spanking she intended did not promise to be pleasurable. Even so, he rationalized, his self-gratification during the week did not really violate Audrey's prohibition. After all, he never fantasized about her while playing with himself. He could never do that and then look her in the eyes later. Indeed, he never created images of any real person during those languid moments of self-indulgence. The fantasies accompanying his busy hand were just that--fantasies, nothing more. And so he bought the biggest bunch of flowers he could find.
"What have you done?" Audrey said sharply as she jammed the roses into a vase empty of water.
She felt constricted. At home over the weekend she relished the loose comfort of fleece and flannel, but in anticipation of Michel's visit--and she just knew he would come after all--she had dressed with the formality befitting a chamber music recital. Black patent leather shoes raised her height and made her back stiff as a ramrod. Thick brown stockings concealed the graceful turn of her ankles. Her black skirt, tight-fitting and calf-length, forced her to move with a slight hobble. Her belt, wide as a cummerbund, shielded her loins and belly from prying eyes, while giving prominence to the pleasingly full breasts nestled behind a starched white blouse. The outfit was completed by a heavy, chain-like necklace, all the more prominent because her hair was coiled away from her neck into a well-fastened bun.
"I said, What did you do?" repeated Audrey, as she inched her way into the living room and sat right in the center of the couch. Michael followed, and then stopped, uncertain as to where he should sit. Audrey gestured toward an armchair on her right.
Tightly wound, Audrey snapped, "So you're going to tell me that even though you've masturbated every day, probably since you were a boy, you stopped this past week."
Michael was stunned at the absence of any small talk. He anticipated they would eventually get around to discussing his private hobby, but he thought the topic would arise much later in the morning's conversation, and by then he figured he could finesse the issue.
"Well, no," Michael began, and then, correcting himself, he continued, "It wasn't really masturbation."
Audrey felt her back stiffen, and with fiery eyes and raised voice she turned to Michael and snarled, "Don't you lie to me. Never lie to me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mmmm." Michael found his lips pressed together ready to say "Ma'am", but realizing how foolish that would sound he mumbled Audrey's name.
"So, did you masturbate this week?" Audrey was relentless.
"Yes." Michael's reply was barely audible.
"Speak up," demanded Audrey.
For the first time, Michael felt anger toward the woman he loved. She was forcing him to say out loud--to name, to acknowledge, to own--the very habit that gave him so much pleasure but that also brought him a secret shame.
Checking himself, he said, quietly and clearly, "Yes, I masturbated."
Audrey felt her breathing relax and her posture droop. She inclined toward Michael as if she were a priest hearing confession.
"I will help you," she said kindly. "I will help you become a better man. And that would be good for us."
Michael glanced up at the word 'us'. He like the sound of it. Then finding Audrey's intense gaze too much to take, he sought out the rug as a restful object for his eyes.
"But you have to want this," continued Audrey. "You have to open up, to accept the guidance I am offering you. You are free to leave at any time, but as long as you are with me, I expect you to obey."
"I don't want to leave," Michael ventured.
Audrey bit her lower lip. She would have preferred a more affirmative response, an express wish to stay. But these were early days, she reassured herself.
With a tightened jaw she asked, "What did I say would happen if you masturbated?"
Michael surprised himself by meeting Audrey's eyes as he replied, "You said I'd get a spanking."
Once again Audrey was disappointed. She had hoped for a less impersonal response. In fact, she wanted Michael to make explicit that she, yes she alone, would administer the punishment. O why didn't he say, "You said you'd spank me"?
Michael looked at Audrey with puzzled anticipation.
"Come over here," she said, tapping her right knee with her index finger.
Michael got up out of his armchair with the graceless lurch of a man more than twice his age.
"Stand there," commanded Audrey, and Michael tingled as her right knee brushed against his left leg.
Audrey noticed her hands were clammy and trembling as she reached for the buckle on Michael's belt.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Audrey's Dream, Chapter 1
Copyright Mael DelaVara
Audrey had soured on Chaucer's "The Book of the Duchess," which was keeping her fingers busy as she pounded out the lecture she had to present first thing tomorrow morning. She could not allow herself to fall asleep and to indulge in a favorite fantasy, she really could not, but . . . .
. . . . She set the door ajar a few inches to be greeted by the familiar arousing scent. It was as if a sea-breeze had moved over a freshly-mown meadow and then wafted through cages of vine-ripening tomatoes and trellises of musty roses. But she was standing outside her dorm room.
She threw open the door and entered with a sense of purpose.
"Hi, Deena," she said, with a trace of suspicion in her voice.
Deena looked uneasy, wearing nothing but a T-shirt that stretched to mid-thigh.
"Hi Audrey," Deena replied with shifting eyes.
Audrey cupped her hand under Deena's chin and brought the averted gaze into line with her own.
"Did you have a good day?"
"Yes, Audrey. But I have to tell you something." Deena hesitated.
"Well, go on."
"I was diddling."
Audrey showed no sign of surprise as she savored again the scent of arousal that hung heavily in the small space.
"Well, you know what the consequences are. And this was your idea. You were the one who asked me to help break you of your compulsion. Over my knee now."
Audrey sat on the edge of the bed and Deena nestled in her lap, sliding to find a tight fit.
"So how many times did you orgasm?"
"I had one big one and two small ones."
"Well, it doesn't matter how big the orgasm was, does it?" Audrey noticed Deena's cheeks rippling nervously under the cling of her T-shirt.
"No, an orgasm is an orgasm."
"And you awarded yourself ten strokes for each climax you gave yourself, did you not?"
"Yes, Audrey."
"So that's thirty strokes." Audrey landed the first blow before she finished her sentence, causing Deena to bounce in surprise. Audrey gently pushed Deena down at the small of her back.
"Relax, we've got some ways to go."
Audrey then rained down two dozen blows. The T-shirt offered little protection, and in a paroxysm of screaming pain, Deena bucked off Audrey's lap and landed on the floor.
"Fetch me the hairbrush," Audrey said quietly and firmly.
Wiping away tears, Deena complied and resumed her position over Audrey's thighs.
Audrey pulled up the T-shirt to lay bare a well-reddened bottom that showed the beginning of some bruising.
"Relax those cheeks." Audrey rubbed the bristles over two tightly clenched mounds, pressed together so firmly the crack seemed like only a wrinkle.
Audrey deftly pried apart Deena's thighs causing Deena to gasp at her exposure.
"You know, I think we should keep you shaved," Audrey recommended, as she noticed the moistened and tangled coils. "Don't you agree? It'll make you feel good. It will also heighten your awareness of your sex. Because you need to have more sex up here," Audrey tapped Deena's head, "and less down here," Audrey patted Deena's vulva with the tip of the brush. Deena involuntarily brought her thighs together, momentarily clamping on the brush as if it were an implement she did not wish to release.
"I'm going to give you twelve hard strokes with this brush." Once again, Audrey started to lay on the blows before she had finished speaking. Deena began bawling immediately, and in an attempt to control herself, she dug her fingers into the mattress and bit on the covers. Then she felt a reassuring hug around her heaving shoulders and a soft kiss graze her tear-stained cheeks.
"Come on, get up please." Audrey went over to a shopping bag and pulled out a coconut door mat she'd bought to prevent winter mud from being dragged into the room.
"Sit." Audrey placed the mat on a chair and lowered Deena while pulling up her T-shirt.
"Thirty minutes."
Deena began to wriggle as the coarse fibers irritated her burning bottom, but the more she squirmed, the worse the itchiness flared . . . .
Audrey awoke with a start. She had an itch she wished she could scratch.
Audrey had soured on Chaucer's "The Book of the Duchess," which was keeping her fingers busy as she pounded out the lecture she had to present first thing tomorrow morning. She could not allow herself to fall asleep and to indulge in a favorite fantasy, she really could not, but . . . .
. . . . She set the door ajar a few inches to be greeted by the familiar arousing scent. It was as if a sea-breeze had moved over a freshly-mown meadow and then wafted through cages of vine-ripening tomatoes and trellises of musty roses. But she was standing outside her dorm room.
She threw open the door and entered with a sense of purpose.
"Hi, Deena," she said, with a trace of suspicion in her voice.
Deena looked uneasy, wearing nothing but a T-shirt that stretched to mid-thigh.
"Hi Audrey," Deena replied with shifting eyes.
Audrey cupped her hand under Deena's chin and brought the averted gaze into line with her own.
"Did you have a good day?"
"Yes, Audrey. But I have to tell you something." Deena hesitated.
"Well, go on."
"I was diddling."
Audrey showed no sign of surprise as she savored again the scent of arousal that hung heavily in the small space.
"Well, you know what the consequences are. And this was your idea. You were the one who asked me to help break you of your compulsion. Over my knee now."
Audrey sat on the edge of the bed and Deena nestled in her lap, sliding to find a tight fit.
"So how many times did you orgasm?"
"I had one big one and two small ones."
"Well, it doesn't matter how big the orgasm was, does it?" Audrey noticed Deena's cheeks rippling nervously under the cling of her T-shirt.
"No, an orgasm is an orgasm."
"And you awarded yourself ten strokes for each climax you gave yourself, did you not?"
"Yes, Audrey."
"So that's thirty strokes." Audrey landed the first blow before she finished her sentence, causing Deena to bounce in surprise. Audrey gently pushed Deena down at the small of her back.
"Relax, we've got some ways to go."
Audrey then rained down two dozen blows. The T-shirt offered little protection, and in a paroxysm of screaming pain, Deena bucked off Audrey's lap and landed on the floor.
"Fetch me the hairbrush," Audrey said quietly and firmly.
Wiping away tears, Deena complied and resumed her position over Audrey's thighs.
Audrey pulled up the T-shirt to lay bare a well-reddened bottom that showed the beginning of some bruising.
"Relax those cheeks." Audrey rubbed the bristles over two tightly clenched mounds, pressed together so firmly the crack seemed like only a wrinkle.
Audrey deftly pried apart Deena's thighs causing Deena to gasp at her exposure.
"You know, I think we should keep you shaved," Audrey recommended, as she noticed the moistened and tangled coils. "Don't you agree? It'll make you feel good. It will also heighten your awareness of your sex. Because you need to have more sex up here," Audrey tapped Deena's head, "and less down here," Audrey patted Deena's vulva with the tip of the brush. Deena involuntarily brought her thighs together, momentarily clamping on the brush as if it were an implement she did not wish to release.
"I'm going to give you twelve hard strokes with this brush." Once again, Audrey started to lay on the blows before she had finished speaking. Deena began bawling immediately, and in an attempt to control herself, she dug her fingers into the mattress and bit on the covers. Then she felt a reassuring hug around her heaving shoulders and a soft kiss graze her tear-stained cheeks.
"Come on, get up please." Audrey went over to a shopping bag and pulled out a coconut door mat she'd bought to prevent winter mud from being dragged into the room.
"Sit." Audrey placed the mat on a chair and lowered Deena while pulling up her T-shirt.
"Thirty minutes."
Deena began to wriggle as the coarse fibers irritated her burning bottom, but the more she squirmed, the worse the itchiness flared . . . .
Audrey awoke with a start. She had an itch she wished she could scratch.
Friday, March 20, 2009
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 3
copyright Mael DelaVara
Back at his apartment, Michael felt the need to consult his dictionary. He could not believe he had uttered that word out loud, right in front of Audrey. What had he said? "Do you think I need to be spanked?" He shook his head in self-reproach.
The dictionary fell open effortlessly among the S's, and he had only to turn a leaf to find the familiar page. The word 'spank'. It seemed the most potent word in the dictionary. He had looked it up hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, yet its definition never changed and always disappointed. It seemed impossible to put into words the power of that one word.
He undid the button of his pants and allowed his hand to wander past the waistline of his underwear. He imagined he was a servant in a mansion with marbled halls. The lady of the house had summoned him to her smoking room to answer for a grievous offense. He had been caught in the maids' quarters, an area forbidden to men. Her ladyship was imperiously tall and thin, and her room smelled of expensive tobacco and even more expensive perfume.
"You know what we are obliged to do," she said, as she poised her silver cigarette holder on the edge of an ashtray.
"Over here, young man," she commanded, and with a rustle of silk she alighted on a hardback chair theatrically placed in the center of an alcove. She pulled up her dress to reveal gazelle-like thighs dressed in shimmering nylons. He could feel the textured embroidery of the stocking top against his left thigh; and the tracings of her fingertips around his globes gave him goosebumps. And then a gentle slap, and then another, and another, and on and on as a warm glow began to spread, and more and more . . . .
Michael reached for a tissue.
As his spirits drooped, he advised himself it wasn't like that, not like that at all.
A real spanking was a totally different experience. He had been spanked only once as a child. It was the summer of his mother's final illness--he was thirteen--and he had been sent to his Uncle Harry's farm. His uncle had married a woman from England, a war-bride people said. She was named Gertrude, although grown-ups called her Gertie. To Michael she was simply Auntie. Auntie ruled her brood with repressed fury. It was hard to know how many children she had because the house was always full of kids from neighboring farms, and all were treated alike. The back of many a bare leg bore the trace, on lower thigh or calf, of a single flip of the switch, administered as the reprobate child ran away at breakneck speed.
Michael always avoided the switch. He was a timid child, inclined to stay at the fringes of boisterous play, and therefore well away from the constant trouble. But his inclination to lurk proved his undoing. A piercing scream from the girls' bedroom was all it took. His older cousin Elizabeth was grinning maliciously as Auntie stormed in, grabbed him by the ear, and dragged him downstairs to the dining room. Before he knew what was happening, he had been bent over the table and the room echoed with Auntie yelling orders.
"Fetch the stick." The 'stick' was a switch, freshly cut every few weeks, or as often as needed, and it was to be found in whatever room it was last applied. A scurry of little feet followed the command.
"Hold his arms down, Lizzie." His cousin grabbed both his forearms in a grip that bore witness she alone was responsible for milking Bessie, the farm's only cow.
"Unbreech the lad." Auntie spoke a strange kind of English--the Queen's English she called it. Invisible hands pulled down his shorts, and then his underwear. Michael suddenly realized the uniqueness of his position. No other child, so far as he knew, ever got a bare bottom whipping, and certainly not in front of hundreds of eyes wide with anticipation. He could feel all the peering as if he was being stung by a swarm of hornets.
"Twelve of the best for you, my lad." His sense of humiliation was immediately obliterated by a fireball of screaming, writhing, crying--and the pain, the pain: the pain was indescribable. It was all over in the few blinks of an eye, and the day resumed as if nothing of consequence had happened.
Michael gave a little shudder at the memory. He was not so sure he'd go back to Audrey's this Saturday. After all, Tom Sawyer ran away when Aunt Becky brought out the switch . . . .
Back at his apartment, Michael felt the need to consult his dictionary. He could not believe he had uttered that word out loud, right in front of Audrey. What had he said? "Do you think I need to be spanked?" He shook his head in self-reproach.
The dictionary fell open effortlessly among the S's, and he had only to turn a leaf to find the familiar page. The word 'spank'. It seemed the most potent word in the dictionary. He had looked it up hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, yet its definition never changed and always disappointed. It seemed impossible to put into words the power of that one word.
He undid the button of his pants and allowed his hand to wander past the waistline of his underwear. He imagined he was a servant in a mansion with marbled halls. The lady of the house had summoned him to her smoking room to answer for a grievous offense. He had been caught in the maids' quarters, an area forbidden to men. Her ladyship was imperiously tall and thin, and her room smelled of expensive tobacco and even more expensive perfume.
"You know what we are obliged to do," she said, as she poised her silver cigarette holder on the edge of an ashtray.
"Over here, young man," she commanded, and with a rustle of silk she alighted on a hardback chair theatrically placed in the center of an alcove. She pulled up her dress to reveal gazelle-like thighs dressed in shimmering nylons. He could feel the textured embroidery of the stocking top against his left thigh; and the tracings of her fingertips around his globes gave him goosebumps. And then a gentle slap, and then another, and another, and on and on as a warm glow began to spread, and more and more . . . .
Michael reached for a tissue.
As his spirits drooped, he advised himself it wasn't like that, not like that at all.
A real spanking was a totally different experience. He had been spanked only once as a child. It was the summer of his mother's final illness--he was thirteen--and he had been sent to his Uncle Harry's farm. His uncle had married a woman from England, a war-bride people said. She was named Gertrude, although grown-ups called her Gertie. To Michael she was simply Auntie. Auntie ruled her brood with repressed fury. It was hard to know how many children she had because the house was always full of kids from neighboring farms, and all were treated alike. The back of many a bare leg bore the trace, on lower thigh or calf, of a single flip of the switch, administered as the reprobate child ran away at breakneck speed.
Michael always avoided the switch. He was a timid child, inclined to stay at the fringes of boisterous play, and therefore well away from the constant trouble. But his inclination to lurk proved his undoing. A piercing scream from the girls' bedroom was all it took. His older cousin Elizabeth was grinning maliciously as Auntie stormed in, grabbed him by the ear, and dragged him downstairs to the dining room. Before he knew what was happening, he had been bent over the table and the room echoed with Auntie yelling orders.
"Fetch the stick." The 'stick' was a switch, freshly cut every few weeks, or as often as needed, and it was to be found in whatever room it was last applied. A scurry of little feet followed the command.
"Hold his arms down, Lizzie." His cousin grabbed both his forearms in a grip that bore witness she alone was responsible for milking Bessie, the farm's only cow.
"Unbreech the lad." Auntie spoke a strange kind of English--the Queen's English she called it. Invisible hands pulled down his shorts, and then his underwear. Michael suddenly realized the uniqueness of his position. No other child, so far as he knew, ever got a bare bottom whipping, and certainly not in front of hundreds of eyes wide with anticipation. He could feel all the peering as if he was being stung by a swarm of hornets.
"Twelve of the best for you, my lad." His sense of humiliation was immediately obliterated by a fireball of screaming, writhing, crying--and the pain, the pain: the pain was indescribable. It was all over in the few blinks of an eye, and the day resumed as if nothing of consequence had happened.
Michael gave a little shudder at the memory. He was not so sure he'd go back to Audrey's this Saturday. After all, Tom Sawyer ran away when Aunt Becky brought out the switch . . . .
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 2
copyright Mael DelaVara
Audrey was glad that Michael had left, but she found no pleasure in her own company. It was as if the embrace that gave Michael an unaccustomed sense of peace also emptied her of what she needed to relax. Her fingers clenched and, involuntarily, she loosened them by tying her hair up into a bun.
She moved toward the the heavily used upright piano, an inheritance from her grandmother and a source of all her bliss and all her frustration. She lowered herself gently onto the stool, as if she had just been spanked, and felt her jaw tighten as she registered what she already knew. She could not reach the pedals. The stool would have to be shifted unnaturally close to the instrument. She did not have the heron-like legs of a ballerina. Her brows furrowed, and the lines deepened as she glanced at the sun-faded cover of the Schirmer edition of Beethoven's music for solo piano.
She wanted to pound the keys in an ecstatic play-through of the "Hammerklavier" sonata, but she was incapacitated by a sudden fixation on her hands. Her fingers never had the reach to play the late Beethoven comfortably. She was built for Bach, but only physically, not emotionally. And she wryly recalled how in an E. M. Forster novel--was it "Howard's End"?--a supercilious male character opined that young women should not play Beethoven, indeed even listen to him, because his music posed a threat to their emotional well-being. And she began to fantasize about being Beethoven's pupil, and everyone knew what a grouch he was, and so what would happen to her if she hit a wrong note. She wriggled on the bench. Such fantasies were not healthy, she told herself, and she returned to look at her hands.
They were still dumpy. Pretty enough, to be sure, but the fingers lacked the extended elegance of those in Rossetti's painting aptly titled "La Bella Mano," a painting she adored yet resented. Whenever she visited the Delaware Art Museum, especially at the request of visiting relatives, she made a point of denying herself the joy of buying a reproduction. But she had come quite some way in accepting her hands as they were. Yes, her fingers were short, but they were powerful. They were made to grasp and to clench and to pinch . . . . and to smack. Yes, they may have cost her a concert career and consigned her to a life as a teacher and a church organist, but they also liberated her into a secret servitude--an obsession with bottoms, with squeezing them, and beating them, and reddening them, and . . . .
She felt herself getting light-headed, and she wondered if she had entered the wrong room after Michael left. After all, in a box beneath her bed, there was a well-thumbed stash of forbidden spanking literature. How she would now like to read some of Edith Cadivec's paeans to the joys of birching a shapely bottom. And how she would like to tread again the path that Harriet Marwood set out for her charge Richard. But she could not bring herself to rise from the piano bench. Instead, her bottom pressed relentlessly against its hardness, and she focused again on her hands.
They were a constant source of worry. Not just her livelihood, but her life--her very sense of being--depended on them. Her nightmares most often took the form of car doors slamming on disembodied fingers. What was she to do, she wondered, if Michael actually showed up on Saturday morning. He was not a football player, but he was a good deal bigger than she, and her hand alone would not make much of an impression, at least not without it getting swollen. She drifted into recalling that there was a major concerto written for a pianist for one hand--yes, the Ravel. And there were a few others. But how was that relevant, she snapped at herself.
Her shoulders clenched, and she doubled over, bringing the full weight of her upper body to push her bottom deeper against the bench. As she did so, her mind freed itself to roam over her duplex, and she began to see, in her mind's eye, wooden spoons and spatulas in the kitchen, a ruler in her home office, belts in her closet, a hairbrush in her bedroom.
But there was something missing. She did not have a bath brush, and she needed one. She'd put off buying an old-fashioned model, made in Vermont, that the Bed and Bath store at the mall had in stock because she was sure it would go on sale at some point. Who buys these things anyway? Now, however, was the time for a purchase. If Michael didn't show on Saturday, it would be his loss, she found herself thinking with a chuckle. At least she would still have an item she could put, with some reluctance, to its intended use. But who intends these things anyway. Now she was giggling, and she bounced off the piano stool to finish the glass or so of wine left in the bottle from dinner.
Audrey was glad that Michael had left, but she found no pleasure in her own company. It was as if the embrace that gave Michael an unaccustomed sense of peace also emptied her of what she needed to relax. Her fingers clenched and, involuntarily, she loosened them by tying her hair up into a bun.
She moved toward the the heavily used upright piano, an inheritance from her grandmother and a source of all her bliss and all her frustration. She lowered herself gently onto the stool, as if she had just been spanked, and felt her jaw tighten as she registered what she already knew. She could not reach the pedals. The stool would have to be shifted unnaturally close to the instrument. She did not have the heron-like legs of a ballerina. Her brows furrowed, and the lines deepened as she glanced at the sun-faded cover of the Schirmer edition of Beethoven's music for solo piano.
She wanted to pound the keys in an ecstatic play-through of the "Hammerklavier" sonata, but she was incapacitated by a sudden fixation on her hands. Her fingers never had the reach to play the late Beethoven comfortably. She was built for Bach, but only physically, not emotionally. And she wryly recalled how in an E. M. Forster novel--was it "Howard's End"?--a supercilious male character opined that young women should not play Beethoven, indeed even listen to him, because his music posed a threat to their emotional well-being. And she began to fantasize about being Beethoven's pupil, and everyone knew what a grouch he was, and so what would happen to her if she hit a wrong note. She wriggled on the bench. Such fantasies were not healthy, she told herself, and she returned to look at her hands.
They were still dumpy. Pretty enough, to be sure, but the fingers lacked the extended elegance of those in Rossetti's painting aptly titled "La Bella Mano," a painting she adored yet resented. Whenever she visited the Delaware Art Museum, especially at the request of visiting relatives, she made a point of denying herself the joy of buying a reproduction. But she had come quite some way in accepting her hands as they were. Yes, her fingers were short, but they were powerful. They were made to grasp and to clench and to pinch . . . . and to smack. Yes, they may have cost her a concert career and consigned her to a life as a teacher and a church organist, but they also liberated her into a secret servitude--an obsession with bottoms, with squeezing them, and beating them, and reddening them, and . . . .
She felt herself getting light-headed, and she wondered if she had entered the wrong room after Michael left. After all, in a box beneath her bed, there was a well-thumbed stash of forbidden spanking literature. How she would now like to read some of Edith Cadivec's paeans to the joys of birching a shapely bottom. And how she would like to tread again the path that Harriet Marwood set out for her charge Richard. But she could not bring herself to rise from the piano bench. Instead, her bottom pressed relentlessly against its hardness, and she focused again on her hands.
They were a constant source of worry. Not just her livelihood, but her life--her very sense of being--depended on them. Her nightmares most often took the form of car doors slamming on disembodied fingers. What was she to do, she wondered, if Michael actually showed up on Saturday morning. He was not a football player, but he was a good deal bigger than she, and her hand alone would not make much of an impression, at least not without it getting swollen. She drifted into recalling that there was a major concerto written for a pianist for one hand--yes, the Ravel. And there were a few others. But how was that relevant, she snapped at herself.
Her shoulders clenched, and she doubled over, bringing the full weight of her upper body to push her bottom deeper against the bench. As she did so, her mind freed itself to roam over her duplex, and she began to see, in her mind's eye, wooden spoons and spatulas in the kitchen, a ruler in her home office, belts in her closet, a hairbrush in her bedroom.
But there was something missing. She did not have a bath brush, and she needed one. She'd put off buying an old-fashioned model, made in Vermont, that the Bed and Bath store at the mall had in stock because she was sure it would go on sale at some point. Who buys these things anyway? Now, however, was the time for a purchase. If Michael didn't show on Saturday, it would be his loss, she found herself thinking with a chuckle. At least she would still have an item she could put, with some reluctance, to its intended use. But who intends these things anyway. Now she was giggling, and she bounced off the piano stool to finish the glass or so of wine left in the bottle from dinner.
An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 1
An Unusual Courtship
copyright by Mael DelaVara
(All characters portrayed here are fictitious and are not intended to represent either real people or the personae adopted by real people)
Chapter 1
The words caused Michael to feel as if he'd been expelled, for a second time, from the womb.
"I don't believe in sex before marriage," Audrey repeated, noting the spread of alarm across Michael's boyish features.
This was their third date, and the after-dinner conversation in Audrey's tidy duplex had taken a sharp turn. Michael seemed too shocked to say anything, so Audrey cast about to find a way to rephrase, maybe even explain, her belief. Instead, her mind took her, inexplicably, to a memory of the only occasion she'd ever seen her mom in an ungovernable rage.
She must have been about nine at the time, and her brother was a little over two years older. Her mom had caught him"playing with his thing," and for some reason found this act so wicked that she dragged the unfortunate boy by his ear into her bedroom without even troubling to close the door. There she snatched up her hairbrush, grabbed the child around his waist, bared his bottom and, while standing, administered a spanking that seemed interminable. As a girl, Audrey had not understood the exact nature of the offense, but as a woman now in her thirties she regarded men's sense of entitlement as destructive of true intimacy. She cast a suspicious glance at Michael.
"How often do you masturbate?" she heard herself say before she even realized that she'd uttered the question.
Michael squirmed and paused before stammering, "Maybe every day."
"Don't you have any self-discipline?" Audrey shot back, her eyes flashing with momentary anger.
"All guys do it," Michael mumbled sheepishly.
Audrey began to doubt if the relationship had a future. She liked Michael. It had been many years since she felt so attracted to a man. He was courteous and charming and, above all, kind and gentle. But she would have to deal with the pressure of his ungoverned sexuality; and she felt it an affront to her dignity that he would be pleasuring himself while they were dating.
"I do love you, you know," Michael interjected quietly.
He'd never said those words before. Audrey caught his eyes and held them firmly in her gaze.
Yes, I believe he does, she thought to herself as she began to experience a confusion in all her faculties.
"Well," she replied precipitously, "if you lack self-discipline, then you need discipline."
Michael blinked uncomprehendingly, but then under Audrey's steady look, he came to see what she was saying.
"You mean I need to be spanked?" he offered by way of a paraphrase.
"Yes," Audrey said, with a quiet confidence that restored her to herself.
Michael was at a loss for words, so Audrey broke the silence. "If you want a relationship with me, you will stop all self-gratification and you will submit to whatever correction I think necessary. And you will take your punishment like a man."
After that declaration, Michael was even less prepared to gather his thoughts into coherent speech. Audrey took advantage of the pause to continue: "You don't have to decide anything now. In fact, unless there's an emergency, I don't want to see you or hear from you until Saturday. If you accept my proposal, come by in the morning, say around ten, and if things go well, we'll have our fourth date in the evening. I'm sure we can find a restaurant neither of us has tried."
Michael was on the brink of saying something, anything, but he became suddenly aware that Audrey had stood up. He took this as a cue for his departure and lingered over putting on his coat, hoping for a kiss longer and deeper than the one he'd enjoyed at the end of their previous date. Instead, he was embraced by a lingering hug that made him feel surprisingly comforted and reassured.
Audrey recognized that she had enveloped Michael in a deep sense of calm, and she began to tingle at the prospect that he might, he just might find it in his best interests to submit to her plans for him. Only next Saturday would tell.
copyright by Mael DelaVara
(All characters portrayed here are fictitious and are not intended to represent either real people or the personae adopted by real people)
Chapter 1
The words caused Michael to feel as if he'd been expelled, for a second time, from the womb.
"I don't believe in sex before marriage," Audrey repeated, noting the spread of alarm across Michael's boyish features.
This was their third date, and the after-dinner conversation in Audrey's tidy duplex had taken a sharp turn. Michael seemed too shocked to say anything, so Audrey cast about to find a way to rephrase, maybe even explain, her belief. Instead, her mind took her, inexplicably, to a memory of the only occasion she'd ever seen her mom in an ungovernable rage.
She must have been about nine at the time, and her brother was a little over two years older. Her mom had caught him"playing with his thing," and for some reason found this act so wicked that she dragged the unfortunate boy by his ear into her bedroom without even troubling to close the door. There she snatched up her hairbrush, grabbed the child around his waist, bared his bottom and, while standing, administered a spanking that seemed interminable. As a girl, Audrey had not understood the exact nature of the offense, but as a woman now in her thirties she regarded men's sense of entitlement as destructive of true intimacy. She cast a suspicious glance at Michael.
"How often do you masturbate?" she heard herself say before she even realized that she'd uttered the question.
Michael squirmed and paused before stammering, "Maybe every day."
"Don't you have any self-discipline?" Audrey shot back, her eyes flashing with momentary anger.
"All guys do it," Michael mumbled sheepishly.
Audrey began to doubt if the relationship had a future. She liked Michael. It had been many years since she felt so attracted to a man. He was courteous and charming and, above all, kind and gentle. But she would have to deal with the pressure of his ungoverned sexuality; and she felt it an affront to her dignity that he would be pleasuring himself while they were dating.
"I do love you, you know," Michael interjected quietly.
He'd never said those words before. Audrey caught his eyes and held them firmly in her gaze.
Yes, I believe he does, she thought to herself as she began to experience a confusion in all her faculties.
"Well," she replied precipitously, "if you lack self-discipline, then you need discipline."
Michael blinked uncomprehendingly, but then under Audrey's steady look, he came to see what she was saying.
"You mean I need to be spanked?" he offered by way of a paraphrase.
"Yes," Audrey said, with a quiet confidence that restored her to herself.
Michael was at a loss for words, so Audrey broke the silence. "If you want a relationship with me, you will stop all self-gratification and you will submit to whatever correction I think necessary. And you will take your punishment like a man."
After that declaration, Michael was even less prepared to gather his thoughts into coherent speech. Audrey took advantage of the pause to continue: "You don't have to decide anything now. In fact, unless there's an emergency, I don't want to see you or hear from you until Saturday. If you accept my proposal, come by in the morning, say around ten, and if things go well, we'll have our fourth date in the evening. I'm sure we can find a restaurant neither of us has tried."
Michael was on the brink of saying something, anything, but he became suddenly aware that Audrey had stood up. He took this as a cue for his departure and lingered over putting on his coat, hoping for a kiss longer and deeper than the one he'd enjoyed at the end of their previous date. Instead, he was embraced by a lingering hug that made him feel surprisingly comforted and reassured.
Audrey recognized that she had enveloped Michael in a deep sense of calm, and she began to tingle at the prospect that he might, he just might find it in his best interests to submit to her plans for him. Only next Saturday would tell.
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