Saturday, March 28, 2009

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.

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