5 comments/ 15077 views/ 1 favorites Playfully His Ch. 01 By: playmiss Chapter 01: To Have Resolve Note: The events in this series are based on real experiences, which have been somewhat condensed and altered to allow for presentation as a story. * My landlord, Ron, is replacing the sink in my bathroom, and so, as nature calls, he has me use the bathroom downstairs in his apartment. But I am not content to just use the bathroom—I am also snooping a little. Something draws me to do it—I am not normally a snoop—I think it is despicable. Something about this strong, quiet, easy-going man has stirred up this uncharacteristic behavior in me. In the mirrored cabinet, shaving gear, a hair brush, a bottle of aspirin, first-aid stuff, bars of soap, all neatly ordered. In a small linen cabinet, towels and sheets folded and in place. Beneath that, an opening concealed by a curtain, behind it a laundry basket—some discarded articles in it. Blue jeans and a denim shirt—the clothes he wears to work—and socks, boxers, and a tee shirt. Moving the curtain further aside in my act of snooping brings to me a faint scent of him. The scent tugs at me, draws me toward wanting to know it better. What is wrong with me? How can I be so disrespectful? What kind of a person would be so nosey about a man's laundry, looking at his used underwear, even wanting to smell the scent they hold? I turn away, feeling somewhat ashamed. On the back of the bathroom door, belts hang by their buckles from evenly placed hooks, mostly various belts for slacks, arranged by style. At the end is an empty hook, probably for the belt he is now wearing. On a separate hook by itself, a brown, well-worn, wide leather belt, maybe for wearing to his job in construction, shiny on the flat surface and rough at the edges. I touch it, explore its texture with my fingertips. Oh, this is so silly! "What is wrong with you? You despicable snoop! This is not like anything you would normally do." Silly—but also strangely exciting. I am about to pull open his bathroom door to leave his apartment and go back upstairs. But I stop for just a moment—look quickly behind the curtain into the basket again. Just for a moment, just for a quick moment, I tell myself. I reach for the tee shirt. I hold it, feeling the cotton. I hold it to my face and breath through the material. "Stop it!" Something about doing this, secretly smelling him—does it mean I am suddenly crazy? I throw it back into the basket, close the curtain, and turn away from it. I stand still, waiting to calm down, letting my breath come back to normal. Feeling silly, ashamed—and excited. I touch the crude brown belt on the door again. I draw it away from where it hangs, loop it outward, draw it up to my face, brush my cheek with its rough edge, and gently touch my skin with it. My nostrils flare, savoring the belt's many wonderfully-mingled aromas. "Enough! Get control of yourself, girl! No waiting to calm down—just get out of here!" Able to break the spell, I quickly leave his apartment. I am back upstairs. The landlord, Ron, looks at me a little funny for just an instant, as he puts a wrench to a pipe under the new sink he is installing in my bathroom. "I hope you found everything you needed, Audrey" he says. "Oh, sure," I reply. Does he know? I hope it is not obvious. Is the expression on my face a give-away?. I did not merely use the bathroom in his downstairs apartment—I also invaded his privacy. Is he able to tell? As he is working under my bathroom sink, looking over at me, I am acutely aware that I am not good at hiding my feelings. Being fair-skinned, I blush easily. I worry that he can read it in my face, in the way I am not looking directly at him since coming back upstairs, or in how I keep looking away. "How's the new sink coming along? Can I do anything to help?" I say, trying to divert suspicion. "Almost finished. Very kind of you to ask," he smiles. You wouldn't figure my landlord to be a construction supervisor if you went by personality stereotypes. Ron is a physically strong, powerfully built man, yet also soft-spoken and cordial. "Yes, you can help. You can turn the wrench for me while I hold the trap." He sits cross-legged in front of the sink. He slides over a little to give me a small space between him and the wall, where I squat down. "Better if you kneel," he says. "Distribute your weight more evenly." I kneel and grab onto the handle of the wrench, which he already put in place. He reaches in to grip the trap in both hands, his muscles flexing under sleeves rolled up to just past the elbows. I have never been this close to him. "Pull back on the wrench," he says, "but don't use your arms to do the pulling. Just lean away, so you are letting your own weight do the work. Use your arms and wrists just for control. The idea is, don't kill it, but don't pamper it either." The supervisor in him is coming out now. His instructions are very clear and precise, his gentle voice assuming a matter-of-fact tone. The nut turns for me, first easily, then meeting resistance. He crouches further down into the work, powerful hands transforming into grisly vises that grip the shiny pipe. As I continue to pull back, we touch. It is almost imperceptive, blue denim fabric at the top of his shoulder brushing lightly my light cotton short sleeve at the underside of my outstretched arm. We continue to touch, he crouched forward, I slightly behind and above him. I feel his heat. I wonder if he feels mine. "Just a little more," he says. I pull, and he resists my pull, as we work against each other in order to seal the connection, creating a tension between us. I feel strength in his grip through the handle of my wrench, and I know he can feel my tug through his hands on the pipe. I lower myself slightly, to make the direction of my effort more level. That causes us to touch more solidly now. I am surprised that his shoulder is soft, supple, yet underlying that, muscular firmness. My arm seems so slender sticking out of the white cotton sleeve, so feminine in contrast to the male physique flexing from inside blue denim. I lower myself more—not to gain any advantage on the wrench—I want to feel more of him. My arm presses deeper into that deceptive softness now, engaging more of his firmness there, almost boulder-like. He is all business. All work. "Now we both ease off—good," he pronounces. I remove the wrench from the nut. I allow its weight to draw my hand down. My relaxed arm drapes over his shoulder for a fleeting instant until he takes the wrench from me. He sits up straight again. A ghost of sensation lingers at the underside of my arm where we were touching, We stay put for a moment, not saying anything, maybe feeling a little awkward being so close to each other, having touched. Closeness floods me with awareness of him, of his heat, of his smell. I remember my snooping and feel myself flush with shame. He smiles and says I did well, thanking me. His face is close to mine, his breath touches my cheek. I tell him I often helped my dad around the house while growing up. Because we are so close, I speak softly, and to me my voice sounds almost sultry. Is that what he thinks? I feel more shame at the way I am behaving without really meaning to. He slides out, away from the sink, and stands. I stand with him, feeling myself flush again, maybe from the exertion of standing, but also from rising awareness of my feelings. From down deep, in a secret place—well, some kind of stirring. I've experienced it before, something quite different than simple attraction. I am attracted to my boyfriend, Todd, but this is something different. A feeling more powerful than that, like a sense of being exposed—almost like stage fright. Or shame. Or the humiliation of knowing I was snooping. If he ever should find out somehow, I will die! But that is so silly—how would he ever find out? In the kitchen I pour iced tea for us, while in the bathroom he runs water and tests the plumbing. He comes into the kitchen, that male swagger guys have when they know they've accomplished something. Between gulps of tea he explains how once a month he adds something of value to his property. "So, you see, I didn't give you a new sink just to be a nice guy," he says, his face aglow. "This place is an investment, not just a rental income generator." I am thinking that just a moment ago, we were under the sink together, touching. His shoulder against my arm—or my arm upon his shoulder—and I felt his heat and savored his smell—nothing artificial, no cologne or deoderant, just a slight scent of soap, and all the rest was him—and he must have felt my heat. Am I giving off any scent? Does it attract him at all? I hope he likes my smell as much as I like his. My liking his smell—well, it seems kind of naughty somehow, which enhances my liking it all the more. And now, as we stand in the kitchen, a comfortable physical space separates us, my senses continue to buzz. They are like a beehive awakened by the spring sun. Oh, what is wrong with me! On the outside, I nod and smile as he speaks. But inside, some kind of primitive inclinations quiver. He is looking at me in a funny way again. Like he is seeing into me, for just an instant. He stops talking. I am supposed to be saying something, anything, to carry on my half of the conversation, but my mind has gotten tangled in some kind of sensual undergrowth, thinking of him, his neat orderliness, his belts, his heat, his smell, the touch of his shoulder on the underside of my arm. He sees me looking at the belt on his jeans, wide brown leather like the one on the door, but a newer version. I feel so naughty looking at his belt. What must he think of me? I must say something. To end the awkwardness, I motion toward the front room. "Would you like to sit a minute? No reason to run back downstairs immediately, is there?" "Sure, I can spare a minute." We take our iced tea with us. He sits on the sofa and I on the bentwood rocker, a favorite possession I brought from home. I feel a stronger need to dispel awkwardness. I laugh. "I noticed your belts," I blurt. He looks puzzled. "On the back of the door when I used your bathroom downstairs." "Oh," he says and smiles, still unsure. "So neatly arranged," I explain, trying to make up a reason why I would have said such a thing. "I like neatness also." It works. He smiles fully. "Yes, I noticed you are very neat," he says, complimenting me as he looks around. "Zelda is a bit of a slob," I laugh, mentioning my apartment mate who is gone for the weekend. "But we have an agreement that, as long as she keeps her mess confined to her bedroom, I don't say anything." As we talk, I realize that out of habit I have been moving the rocking chair at a slight rhythm. The motion causes the material of my sweats to lightly move against me, alerting me to the early budding of arousal. What is wrong with me? Why can't I just sit here and enjoy a civil conversation with this man? The cotton fabric of my tee shirt also moves ever so slightly over my breasts. I stop the rocker and remain still. I am aware that dew is beginning to form. Something catches his eye. My framed team photo on the wall. "So, you play basketball?" "I did. High school," I say, happy to be distracted. "I was good, but I'm not good enough for the team here at the university." "You certainly look like you could play," his eyes passing over my body in a modest kind of way, careful not to leer. I'm without underwear. Suppose my dewy arousal shows through the sweats—a spot of moisture—maybe a whole patch of moisture. I have to concentrate. I have to get away from this train of thought. I stand and turn toward the photo, away from him momentarily, and covertly pull at my pant legs to draw any bunched material away from my center. I glance down. No spot. That's a relief! I also pull down the long end of my loose tee shirt to cover me there. Then, turning back to him, as an excuse for having stood up, I name all my teammates and coaches, pointing them out for him. He stands up and looks at the picture. "You are certainly tall enough," he says, returning to the subject of my playing, eyeing my stature. "About five-ten, I would guess." "Ten and a half. Five-ten and a half, when barefoot." He nods. He stands about six feet. As he takes another drink of tea and steps closer to the picture, I allow my eyes to wonder over him. He is a mature male, in his thirties I am guessing, very physically fit. His shirt does not hide his shape. He has hard looking muscles—not bulging the way they do on a body builder—but solidly formed in slab-like layers by long experience with hard work. When he looks at me, I smile, realizing how childish it is to say, "Five ten and a half," like a kid trying to be a half inch taller . I must try to be more adult. "Oh, yes," I now say, "I'm tall enough, and quick enough, and a good shot from just about anywhere. But at the college level you really get bumped around, and I just don't have the strength for that. I don't have the beef," I laugh and he smiles. He looks me over again. Discussion of my playing potential has given his eyes permission to linger. I feel like I was given permission also—to feel the pleasure of his attention—to let him look. To wonder how he finds me. Am I attractive? Tall and athletic, but slender, my feminine features are subdued and subtle. He has looked twice at my breasts, and now he returns to them a third time. They are small, and although nicely shaped when visible, their form does not present much to look at from within this loose-fitting cotton shirt. The material drapes over them, offering just a hint. I know many men find that attractive, being teased by the suggestion of form that is not obvious. Is he one of them? I feel my nipples firming. I am afraid to sneak a look down to see if they are poking out, tenting my loose shirt. He looks a little too long, and I detect a slight flush in his face as he looks away, thinking he's been caught staring. Well, he has, and I have been caught with hardened nipples, and feel a flush in my own face that matches his. We are quiet for a while. We both focus on the basketball photo, as if really interested in it, as a way of diverting attention from the discomfort of having enjoyed looking and being looked at. "I'm wondering," he says. "Why are you the only one in uniform who is also wearing a tee shirt underneath it? Nobody else is." "I know this is going to sound silly," I roll my eyes. "I don't shave. When I went out for the team in my freshman year, I was still a kid, so it was not very noticeable, and nobody said anything. But by the next season, I had become more mature physically and the coach grew insistent that I do something before she would ever put me into a game. One of my teammates suggested I wear a sleeved tee shirt." He nods and continues to look at the photo for a moment. "I guess that was kind of a nosey question, wasn't it. I'm sorry." Nosey? Not anywhere near as nosey as me snooping—looking at his private things, sniffing his tee shirt, and feeling his belt. And, here he is apologizing. "Oh, not at all. I don't mind, really. If I were offended by that, I would have to be one superficial chick," I laugh. "A complete waste of time and energy to be that way." He smiles. "A great attitude," he says. "You want to focus only on what's important—no doubt that characteristic made you very valuable to the team." Here we are, having a conversation like two civil adults, and the dew I was aware of earlier now transforms into a blossom of moisture. I am so primitive, like I just climbed down out of the trees, regressing into a primitive self, where ancient instincts reside. We are standing close together now, and I feel his heat again, and smell his scent, and feel so ashamed—and yet feel so alive and alert. Focus. That's what we were talking about, and now I need to do that. "I was not always a good team player," I say, responding to his comment, my words and voice keeping my expressions occupied so they do not reveal the turmoil inside. "How so?" "Let's just say I've been know to be a teensy stubborn." He laughs. "In my experience, most people who are focused are also stubborn. Nothing wrong with that. I think a better word is resolve. You just have to know when to have resolve. Of course, you also have to know when not to." He is looking at the photo. "So, I should have shaved." He looks at me, puzzled. "To be a team player," I say, a self-defensive strain in my voice, remembering how angry the coach had been at my stubbornness. "I should have shaved because everyone else did and the coach wanted me to. Everybody said hair visible under my arms, even little wisps of blonde hair like mine, would only cause a distraction from our game. Opposing players would make comments, and opposing spectators catcalls. Besides, any girl who ever plays sports always shaves any body hair that can be seen. Everybody knows that." I stop talking in the face of his cross expression. "Actually, that was the furthest thing from my mind," he says matter-of-factly. "Why would such a thing even matter? So, wear a tee shirt if you don't want to shave—end of story." Oops. I'm embarrassed. "Of course, such a thing does not matter at all. And here I thought you were talking about that. It seems to be so very important to a lot of people. I am sorry for assuming that of you. I had no right." He smiles again, but now he looks at me like I am a child. "And you are the girl who focuses on what is important," he laughs. My face burns. I can be so silly sometimes. Again, I am aware of the odd effect my own shame is having on me. I sneak a glance down and see my nipples are definitely poking out. They are small, but enough to tent my shirt a little, betraying my arousal. That only deepens my shame—which only heightens my arousal. Oh, what is wrong with me? We drink the last of our tea, and go to the kitchen. He pours his ice cubes into the sink, rinses out the glass, and places it on the counter. Then he takes my glass and does the same with it. "Thanks for the iced tea," he says and smiles. I thank him for rinsing the glasses. I wonder how many guys would have just put their glass down in the front room—leave it for the woman to pick up afterward. I am grateful that he has stopped looking at me like I'm a kid. I bask in his pleasant expression. I find myself moving closer to him. I want to feel his heat again. I want to smell him. I want—what? I cannot define it, nor identify it, as it wells up from deep inside. "You are right," I say. I have no thought of what I am agreeing to. I just want to acquiesce. He is quiet. He looks into my eyes. He can read me. He is like R2D2 plugged into a port, reading files, downloading me. I cannot look away. What now? I lean closer. I don't mean to. I just do. He looks into me. I lean into him. Then he suddenly backs away. "Uh, oh," he says in a hoarse whisper, his breath ragged, looking away. "You are my tenant. Not a good idea. And, don't you have a boyfriend?" "Yes. He is a friend." My breath has lost its natural rhythm. I take his hand in mine—it is sinuous and rough and callused—and place his fingertips on my cheek. He looks very serious. He clears his throat, and in that supervisor's tone says, "Audrey, it's really not a good idea." But he lets me keep his fingertips there. The stern manner of his voice only incites a new flood of sensations deep down. His eyes are into my eyes again. Now they are gentle, not probing. He is accepting what he sees there. "I know," I finally answer in a whisper, and I step to him and place my cheek on his shoulder, my face turned away from his. His shoulder is round and firm with a softness to its surface. The shoulder of a man. A man who works hard and knows who he is. I just want to melt into him. Oh, what is wrong with me? Playfully His Ch. 01 His arms are lightly around my shoulders, kinda fatherly. His face is in my hair behind my ear. He breathes through my hair. I feel him slowly inhaling, taking in my smell. "I have a confession," I whisper. New blossoming of moisture. He is quiet. The he says, "Well?" as if this revelation has been inevitable all along. I take my cheek away from his shoulder to face him. But I cannot look him in the eye. I try to cover my face with my hands. He gently places my hands at my sides. "I snooped," I say, looking down. My insides quiver. Just a few moments ago I thought I would die if he ever knew. Now, why do I feel such a strong, exotic thrill at exposing to this man my naughty behavior? He places a rough finger under my chin and I look up into his eyes through my tears. "When you were working on my sink and I went downstairs to use your bathroom. I am so ashamed." I want to drop my face, but he holds my chin up so I must look straight into his eyes. "I snooped and looked at your stuff." His expression is serious, but not angry. I feel the heat from his body. My own face burns with embarrassment. I feel terribly hot. Sweat tickles my skin. I am so embarrassed. And a new surge of moisture from my center. "Did you find anything interesting?" he asks matter-of-factly. I look into his eyes through my tears. "No—I mean, yes—I mean—I mean—" "Tell me," he says. I tell him that I looked into his cabinet, and into his laundry. My insides quiver. My center is slick with arousal. "A belt. A brown belt, thick and coarse, with shiny areas on it from use. I touched it. I smelled it. It smelled so nice—like you do. And I smelled your shirt." His brow relaxes. He looks into me, and I am overwhelmed with feeling like a silly kid. After a long wait, he says, "And?" Again, he invokes the inevitable. A new arousal of animal within me, more powerful than ever, thrashing, gnawing to get out, invoking a primitive rush at my center, demanding that I face my need. "Will you—will you—?" My voice is a forced whisper. "Will I what?" he asks gently. I place my hands on his shoulders. He touches my face. I find my voice. "Will you—punish me with it? The belt? For snooping, I mean." In the same gentle voice he says, "Do you really know what you are asking for?" "Yes—no—I don't know. I just know I must—I must ask for it." He turns away from me a few steps and is quiet for a while. Then, in a firm, matter-of-fact tone, "Go down to my apartment and fetch it." I turn to go, my head down. Then he says, "Audrey." I look back through my tears. They are not tears of sadness. "If between now and when you come back up here, you change your mind, I will understand." "I won't change my mind. I know when to have resolve, or not." * The second part in this series, entitled Never Again, is in the works and will be submitted soon. Playfully His Ch. 02 Playfully His Ch. 02: Never Again Note: The events in this series are based on real experiences, which have been somewhat condensed and altered to allow for presentation as a story. There it is. The belt. I look at it, and hesitate to touch it. On the back of his bathroom door, hanging by its buckle from a hook, off by itself from the array of other belts as if in a special, reserved place. It is about two inches wide, brown, thick, well worn leather, smooth on its surface, and rough at its edges. The feeling at my center, so alert and aroused a moment ago, now grows queasy. Do I really want this? Slowly I remove it from the hook. It takes on new characteristics as I loop it once and close my hand around it. A simple, inanimate, utilitarian object, yet suddenly so menacing, as if within it resides a force that awaits the opportunity to be my undoing. I have never been spanked. I've only read accounts of it. I hold the leather to my face and smell its aromas. As I go back up the stairs, I am shaking. My legs feel weak. I stop midway. What am I doing? I was so sure a short time ago when he told me to fetch the belt. Now confidence is draining away. This is all so silly. I am so silly. I have to back away, I decide. I have to tell him I cannot go through with it. I am filled with the shame of my own silliness. First I ask him to punish me, and now I'm about to say I didn't really mean it. I continue up the stairs, legs weaker still, confidence down to zero, my own shame having taken me over completely. Well, I have no choice. I just have to tell him and apologize, and then simmer in the juices of self-induced ridicule, totally exposed to him as the foolish girl I truly am. Having made my decision, I enter my apartment to face the humiliating situation of having suddenly changed my mind. I go in, and he is sitting in a kitchen chair, which he has turned around, facing away from the table. He looks at me. I stand in the kitchen doorway, the looped belt in my hand at my side. He looks into my eyes. Into me. "You've changed your mind," he says matter-of-factly, wearing a knowing smile. He knew all along. "No." He continues to look into me for a time. I cannot bear it, and look away. He says, "Audrey, you have a boyfriend. What would he think of this?" Todd. My boyfriend. We are friends, Todd and I. Not lovers. We have been friends since third grade. We haven't shared our deepest intimacies. We haven't had sex. Todd knows nothing of my secret need. Nobody knows. It has always been a secret, my most deeply held secret—until now. Something about Ron is drawing it out of me. It is some kind of animal need that demands satisfaction. "Look at me," he says. I return to his eyes. They bore into me. I cannot stand it. I have to speak. "I don't want to go through with it," I say. That knowing look on his face. "I don't want to go through with it," I say again. "And I want to, at the same time." That same knowing look. He nods. "It's just that—" "Just that what?" he asks. "I am afraid. I've never been spanked. I've never done anything like this before." He thinks for a time, and I don't feel his eyes boring into me as much. Then he says, "But you have imagined it—fantasized about it." I do not respond. I am so embarrassed. My skin prickles with humiliation—simultaneous with wetness seeping from my sex. My sex is slick with it. Oh, what is wrong with me? "Haven't you, Audrey," he says gently. "Haven't you fantasized about it." "Yes." "Tell me about it." I shrug my shoulders like a little kid. He waits. I find it difficult to begin. "Tell me about it." "I don't have anything specific to tell. I mean, like details. I imagine it more as a situation than something that actually happens." He exhales for longer than normal, a disapproving sound. "Keep looking at me," he says. "When you look away, I think you are trying to be evasive." I decide to try again, this time looking into his eyes. He is right. I was evading, and now I cannot because our eyes are locked. My secret begins to trickle out, then pour, then gush. It sounds like someone else's voice, yet I know it is mine as I tell him. They are not logical stories. They are more like disconnected scenes. I am tied to a post and flogged. I am over a knee and belted. I am bent forward over the back of a chair, my palms flat on the seat, as someone uses a switch on my upper thighs and buttocks. I am made to beg for mercy. I am made to endure. I am taken to a state of suffering I cannot possibly be willing to accept, and yet I go there willingly. I tell him. I tell him all of it. He is quiet after I finish. Then he says, "So what happens next? Don't look away—the answer is not on the floor or over by the wall. What happens next? Tell me, Audrey." "I don't know what you mean." I realize my eyes are flooding with tears, which spill over and leave wet trails on my face. "How do the fantasies end?" I sniffle and then ask to blow my nose. "Not before you tell me. Tell me all of it." I look away again, but he does not tell me to look at him this time. He is quiet and I hear my pulse raging. I hear myself sob. And now I am crying. I wipe my nose on my forearm. I notice the tiny hairs on my skin are raised up. All of my skin prickles. "Do you want to end it? Shall we call a halt to all this and forget it ever happened? What would your boyfriend think?" "No," I whimper. "But you look to be in such distress." "No," I say again. "And why not? Look at me and tell me. Tell me why we should continue." I cannot believe I am letting this go on. He just gave me the opportunity to end it, and I know I should. But something in me wants it to go on. Moisture seeps from my sex—I can feel wet ends of pubic hair tickling my inner thighs. "I need it," I say as I look directly into his gaze, my voice gaining sudden strength. "I need it," I say again clearly. "Todd knows nothing about this—this need. We are close, Todd and I—close in many ways, but some things we do not share. Something about you, Ron—well, it makes me want to expose it to you. I don't know why." He suddenly raises his voice and gives a firm command. "Then, tell me! Tell me right now. Otherwise we shall end it!" "Tell you what?" I blurt, having forgotten the question. His voice is gentle again. "Tell me what happens next, Audrey. How do these fantasies end?" I look away. "Look at me!" I look at him. "Tell me." "They end when—when I can no longer take it." "Can no longer take IT?" he says. "What's IT? Tell me what IT is, and keep looking at me as you tell me." I cannot. I cannot look at him, nor can I tell him. "Tell me," he says gently. "Tell me," he says in almost a whisper. I look into his eyes. I tell him. "Touching myself. When I can no longer take touching myself." He sits back in the chair and exhales, relaxing. "That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" "No. I mean, yes. Yes it was hard," I say and suddenly laugh at myself. He smiles. "It's an erotic fantasy, that's all. But it makes you feel ashamed, doesn't it." "Yes. It is something so private. It does not make me ashamed to have fantasies, or to feel sexy about them, or to touch myself. But to tell about it makes me feel so—so exposed." "Don't drop your head. Look at me." I comply. "Now we are getting somewhere. Did you fetch the belt?" "Yes." I am holding it at my side. He can easily see it. I realize he only asks to make me relive the anguish of my decision to get it and bring it back upstairs. I hold it out to him. "Now tell me. In your fantasies, does it hurt when you are spanked?" "Yes. Or, I imagine it does. I imagine whoever is doing it is taking me past my endurance." "You said you have never been spanked for real. So, how is it you can imagine what it feels like? Now, don't look away! Tell me." "I—I have done it to myself," I say, feeling my face flush. "I can't hear you. What did you say?" "I have spanked myself," I say with resignation. "With a ruler. To see what it feels like." "So, you think that is the same?" I shrug again, like a child. I am being worn down by the way he is making me say all these things that I have never said before. "Probably not," I admit. "So you spank yourself as a way of making your fantasy more real. Is that it?" "Yes. But it is not like something I do. It has only been a few times. Just so I could feel what it is like." "And this behavior of yours today—snooping in my personal stuff and then confessing—is this a way to make your fantasy more real?" "I—I think it must be so. But I did not think about it that way before I did it. I feel a need to—to—do things." "Things?" "Things that are probably despicable to most people. To smell your shirts. To ask to be spanked. It all seems so despicable, but I have this need. I am so embarrassed. What must you think of me?" My vision is distorted again with tears. Wetness is seeping from my sex. I am thankful now for pubic hair, for the way it soaks up the moisture, hindering it just a little from seeping unabated through the fabric of my sweats. It would be so embarrassing if he knew how wet I am. "You say you wonder what I must think of you. Well, I'll tell you, then. I think you are wanting to use me, Audrey." "No," I whine, unable to accept such an indictment. "Yes. The need you feel is the need to test your fantasies. You want to try them out in the real world. And you apparently think I am the means to do that. Is it not so?" Tears roll down my cheeks. "Yes," I say meekly. He already knows me in this regard far better than I have ever known myself. He extends his arm and motions with his hand toward the belt. I approach him gingerly and give him the belt. He looks at it for a long time. He studies the it. He folds it over to a loop. Placing a finger inside the loop, he rapidly stretches it out to make the two sides rapidly move inward and slap each other. The sudden noise makes the tiny hairs on my skin stand on end all over my body, and I am aware of my adult body hair quickening to alertness. I am afraid—and I am aroused. I hear my sex open, an almost imperceptible sound like a little cluck of the tongue. Does he hear it? I feel air finding its way to the dewy cavity that has suddenly presented itself through the involuntary opening of labia. My sex ripens with arousal. He looks up from the belt. "You have no idea what it is like to be struck by an instrument of punishment." Again he rapidly stretches the loop to make the sides slap each other, this time with more force. I feel dread. I should never have started this. I am so naive to allow myself to get into this predicament. "I will not spank you for your lewd behavior. Not now. You are a novice to this kind of play. Before you engage in it, you must learn how much it hurts, and then make an informed decision. Do you understand?" "Yes," I say, uncertainty in my voice, which makes him smile. "No. I don't think you do understand. How could you? You've never been spanked." I drop my head at his treatment of me. I am so silly, and he knows it. "Look at me. Nothing wrong with ignorance, so long as you are willing to correct it. This is how we will go about it. I will spank you here in your kitchen. I will give you one swat with this belt. That is all. Just one. I can assure you it will hurt. I will put a lot of force into it. After you receive it, you will stand in the corner beside the refrigerator, and I will leave the belt on the chair. I will go back to my apartment. Do you understand?" "Yes." "You will experience the real sensations of a swat from a belt. Believe me, it is not anything like what you may have imagined, nor is it anything like what you may have felt when spanking yourself with a ruler. It will hurt. It will hurt a lot. I will make sure of it. Do you understand?" "Yes." Hairs all over my body are standing on end again. I am thoroughly frightened. I am thoroughly aroused. "As you stand in the corner, it will take some time for the sensation to subside to a level where you can actually think about it. In the meantime, let's just say, you will be very focused on what has just happened to you. Once you are able to settle down a bit, you must decide whether it is anything you want to experience ever again. And, keep in mind while you are deciding, this will have been only one swat. A real spanking has the effect of that one swat multiplied many fold and put down one after another, and not necessarily with any opportunity for relief in between." My insides are quivering. My skin prickles. "If you decide you still want to play—that is, if you still want the spanking—my apartment door will be unlocked. Come down and let yourself in. Bring the belt with you. If I do not see you within an hour, we will just forget that any of this happened, and you may leave the belt outside my door at your earliest convenience. Understood?" "Yes." "Are you ready?" The moment is suddenly here. I don't want it to be here. No, I am not ready! "Yes," I say, my voice constricted to a whimper. He shifts to the front edge of the chair. "Over my lap," he says matter-of-factly. I follow his instructions. He holds the belt in his right hand, and so he has me stand at his right side and then bend over and settle onto his lap. It seems so awkward getting into position. His lap is warm. "Hands flat on the floor, toes on the floor on the other side. Now raise yourself up a little. Like a pushup." I put my weight on my hands and feet and raise up, as he said. Fingers find the waistband of my sweats. It did not occur to me that he would pull my pants down! I have never been spanked, so how would I know. I have a sudden inclination to jump up and run out of the kitchen. But I remain. It seems like time slows as he tugs the sweats free of my hips. He lowers them down my legs so they bunch at my ankles. The air cools my bare skin, mocking my nakedness. My moist inner thighs are especially sensitive to the cool air. "Lower yourself back down," he says. Through the rough fabric of his jeans the heat from his lap returns. I am so aware of my exposure. Being bent over with my bottom upturned, I feel his eyes taking in my most private self presented for his visual exploration. My legs are firmly together, but my position fills me with a sense that he is able to pry me open at will. My bottom twitches involuntarily at the thought of him looking at me there, which humiliates me all the more. Is he gazing unabashed at my uncovered rear opening? Is he feasting his eyes on my sex in its fully bloomed, lewd state of arousal? Or, may I take some solace in the thought, since I do not shave down there the way some of my friends do, that pubic flora may help a little to hide my private area from him? I feel my dewy openness, surely as open as I have ever experienced. The hair from my head falls toward the floor and makes a shroud around my vision, which fosters a momentary sense of security, as if it somewhat shades me from what is happening. It is a fleeting sense, and soon dissipates in resignation to the simple truth that my bottom is lewdly upturned on his lap. And now, I am also aware, because my sweats have been pulled down, that my scent is being released. The special aroma, that secret smell I know so well as embellishment to sexual self play, is escaping into the air. If, in my awkward physical position I am so aware of it, then he, with my opened exposure so immediate to him, is able to claim for his own enjoyment the scent that only I have savored until now. Blood rushes to my face. It is not so much from my torso being inverted as from deep mortification. He nudges me further outward on his lap so I am over his knees. There is a slight twisting to his body, which I can feel in a shift of his legs. I realize it is the motion of him raising the looped belt, getting ready to really let me have it. He is going to teach me a lesson with only one spank, and so he is making it a good one. I don't want this. I don't want this at all. What is wrong with me? How did I ever come to this— The downward belt swishes through the air, then raps my upturned bottom. I hear and feel the contact of the belt, but then there is a slow-moving instant in which nothing else happens. Then the jolt. The sound first—the crack of the belt. An empty instant. Then the fire, a bolt of lightning—streaking across my bottom. From deep inside my being, a low animal howl. I am suddenly standing. No awareness of getting off his lap. Just suddenly standing upright before him. My hands are behind me, rubbing the fire feverishly as the howl continues, slowly going from a low pitch to a higher pitch. I rub and rub, trying to rub away a serpentine sensation of molten metal that burns deeper and deeper into my flesh. Slowly my other senses emerge from the haze induced by having been struck. My frantic rubbing to put out the fire, a purely primitive protective instinct, positions me in such a way that I am grotesquely exhibiting myself to this man seated on a chair in my kitchen. A moment earlier, by bending over his lap, I presented to him my most personal self from a rear perspective. The next moment, having bolted upright, I stand before him bent backward, offering to him another, equally lewd, perspective from the front. I am mortified when a quick glance downward shows me what a spectacle I am—a girl on display, her blonde pubic swatch, bristling and matted with moisture, just inches from him. I stop rubbing long enough to pull the tail end of my shirt down to cover myself. Then I resume rubbing through the shirt material now draped over fiery flesh. I remember the corner by the refrigerator—that I am supposed to go there. I refuse to bend over to pull my sweats up, which would only expose me to him again in a most lewd manner. My feet, bound by the bunched sweats, are only capable of tiny, rapid steps that mimic the trembling of my being. I make my way to the corner in a hobbled state. I am dimly aware of him placing the belt on the chair, picking up his tool box, and leaving. Only then do I stoop and pull up my sweats. No way! No way I am ever going to let anybody do that to me again. Never again! The howling noise mellows into a whimper, and then is replaced by guttural noises from my natural breathing cycle regaining itself. My response is less to the pain than to this terrible offense to my spirit, to my very being. It makes my body tremble and quake. The molten metal band across my bottom loosens a little, but continues to fire my flesh. I cannot seem to erase it entirely by rubbing. No, I am not crying. I am too angry to cry. I refuse to cry. Anger at myself. I've learned my lesson. Never again. Now, the lesson is over, and I must quickly take the belt downstairs and leave it outside his door. I won't wait for that hour to go by. I'll do it now, before this afternoon of silliness has the opportunity to conjure up any more fantasy. I hear a ticking sound. Leaving the corner, I discover its source. Before he left, he set the old fashioned timer on my stove top. In the shock of the moment, I had not heard him do that. As I look at the timer, I am aware that my trembling is at last slowly dissipating. The burning sensation in my buttocks transforms into tingling. The timer is now at fifty-two minutes—and ticking. The third part in this series, entitled What To Wear To A Spanking, is in the works and will be submitted soon.