Five Minutes of Solitude

Her chief concern was not that people would notice her lack of panties — the dress’ opaque blackness left little opportunity for that. No, her primary concern, without the benefit of the extra material, was the inevitable and widening dark spot left from his fingers’ attention. Sure, his hand had been up her dress for the last two songs, but he’d been a gentleman about it. He made her scoot to the edge of her seat and crook her leg over his. He put his index finger to his lips, instructing her not to make a sound while his other fingers slipped beneath her hem, traveled up her stockings and landed solicitously on her clit. In response, she defiantly slurped the ice cubes that remained of her vodka tonic and vowed to keep her shudders to herself. After one more song — perhaps a moody number by Phil Collins — he would lead her to the restroom where twenty dollars bought them five minutes of solitude from the restaurant manager. Before tonight she hadn’t known the value of a men’s bath, but considered it a steal. It was so, with a nod from the management and knowing looks from the staff, that he led her through the crowded, upscale establishment — wet spot and all — to the heavy wooden door marked “Closed for Cleaning”. There is more possibility in five minutes, alone, than one might think. In two seconds he had her facing the wall, her breasts pressed firmly […]

The Mentor

He was her mentor but he hadn’t asked about her goals. For months he hadn’t asked her much of anything, instead relying on his past brilliance to carry them through — a “cache” he’d called it when she complained that she needed more of his attention. “It’s always ‘what have you done for me lately?’ I only have a 24-hour cache with you,” he’d accuse. “Yeah, and it expired three weeks ago, you lazy so-and-so,” she’d think but wouldn’t say. Instead she’d apologize and hope he wouldn’t dismiss her as a high-maintenance burden, so great was her need of him that she would accept any scrap he’d offer. Gone were the weekly conversations. Gone was the belief that he would spank her good and hard and long and just the way she needed, just the way he promised. Gone were the questions about her days, replaced with a litany of reasons why he couldn’t talk, a breathless monologue with a ‘good night’ attached. He couldn’t text: his phone was lost; the battery was dead; he was in meetings. He couldn’t email: he had presentations; he was on the road; his life was too important. He couldn’t see her: he had a business emergency, a stiff neck, another place to be. She itched with dissatisfaction. She hungered for the connection they once shared. Fueled by this dissatisfaction and hunger and having no other means to communicate with him, she composed one last email. For the first time ever, she lied to […]

The Spanking Tutor

She knew with an absolute certainty how she liked to be spanked. She knew that there were as many right ways as there were wrong ways, and lots of shades in between. But to tell someone how to spank her? To coach him? That tutorial always landed her squarely on the wrong side of things. Instructing a spanker how to spank her was like telling a dentist how to drill her teeth — with all the aggravation of talking around cheek retractors and no benefit of anesthesia. No, all spankings are not created equal. But they could get better with time, communication and a fair dose of patience. Eventually he can learn her body, interpret the signs. She will rise up and he will meet her. She will pull away and he will gather her around the waist and hold her. The paddle will meet the fleshy underside of her cheeks instead of the less-protected upper parts; his hand will start slow and take off on a gallop. She will tremble as he finally teaches her. Or she could skip the tiresome, “time and patience” routine and go for the quick and the dirty: a spanking tutor, a man well-acquainted with her bottom and how to use it. Having the benefit of two confident men in her life, neither easily intimidated by another man’s presence, one an expert and the other a novice, she decided to let the two men take a hands-on approach. Let them heatedly discuss her favorite […]

Stick Shift

Standing on the side of the highway, ten yards from my vehicle’s death throes, I waited for the tow truck. Disappointed, I remembered my oath: not another dime. Having the sports car since college — now an indulgent second vehicle — I felt an illogical responsibility toward it. Last summer she caught fire on the road, landing me in a dangerous and costly predicament. I’d paid the repair money out of sentiment, but this, this was her last hurrah. No more stick shift. I scrunched up my nose and contemplated the great scrap yard in the sky. Amid flashing lights and the smell of diesel, he arrived. The Tow Truck Driver. He was younger than me, perhaps younger than my car, with sinewy hands dirty from work. Apart from his brief and crooked smile, he was all business. “An ’83?” He asked while consulting his papers. “Yes. Old but fast,” I said, feeling the need to defend against his tone. In a move more gymnast than mechanic, he shimmied under the low vehicle to attach a hook to the frame, necessary to ease the car onto the truck bed. It should be noted that I am vulnerable to the sight of men fixing things. Although this was more a funeral rite than a rebirth, my breath hitched. His leather belt persuaded my thoughts in a debauched direction. It was the kind of belt that knows what it is doing: subtle but decidedly there, not a belt to be ignored or […]

Butterflies & Bruises

His thumb traces the bruise on her lower right cheek. He lifts her bottom and kisses the red stripe that ends in a blossoming purple. She folds the pillow under her head and weeps. Her hair smells of him, the other him, not the one who kisses her marks. Tangled sheets remind her at the foot board; on the dresser are her panties. Beside her is another man, her man, waiting to hear the story. “Well?” He asks expectantly as his hand moves up her naked back. “It was wonderful,” she sobs. “Then why are you crying?” Because it wasn’t you, comes her silent accusation. It wasn’t her lover who cultivated the butterflies and pushed them to the precipice. He didn’t peer inside her, see her nerves and determine what she needed. It was another man who layered the evening so that she could take it longer and harder than ever before. “He used a paddle,” she begins. “Ah. Is that what this is?” He circles a tender area on her left cheek. Shrugging, she cannot see it. “I didn’t complain,” she says in wonder because she always fights the paddle. “Then he used his belt.” “I bet you liked that, didn’t you, naughty girl?” Closing her eyes, she nods and remembers. With doubled leather in hand, he steered her bottom higher, pushed her legs apart and began. For the first half, she watched him: the rise and fall of his untucked dress shirt; the way his shoulders engaged in […]

Letter of Reference

It wasn’t unusual, with the kind of relationship they had, to discuss their pursuits of other people. He was, after all, just her Disciplinarian, with no delusions of romance between them. They lived hours from each other, making visits infrequent — less frequent than she needed, truth be told — but worthwhile. So when he asked her to contact other women on his behalf, just for occasional, local meets, she wasn’t bothered at first. He did have the best hand she’d ever felt. He was a damn fine Disciplinarian. But just because she had no romantic claim on him didn’t mean that she was game to share the limited time they had together. Sure, she could give him an excellent sales pitch, but did she really want to? She agreed, with a plan in mind. First, she asked what, specifically, he sought. Next, she asked if he wouldn’t mind contacting men on her behalf to return the favor. He likewise agreed and, with her plan fully formed, she sat down to write her reference letters. Two days later “You contacted them with this,” he said as he threw down the email that contained her letter of reference. “Did you really send this?” “Umm…yes, Sir,” she said, licking her lips while trying to hide her delight. “But, a sense of humor is very important to you. You’ve said so. This was just a test of their humor!” “Funny,” he said, waving the sheets of paper in front of her. “Really funny, […]