Scripted

Here is a sentence I thought I’d never type: I am naked and he is reading. It gets stranger: I am naked and he is reading from his laptop which rests on my butt. He is reading my words out loud. ‘This is you at your most pornographic. This is you at your strongest, your most vulnerable. It takes all of your power to remain this way, shivering in anticipation of what’s to come while hungrily beckoning for him to satisfy your greed. He can see you. He can see all of you. He takes his time, admiring what you continually choose to show him. He knows that you enjoy this; he knows how hard it is for you to wait. He makes you wait.’ It is true. I am shivering yet haunted with heat. His forearm hairs dust my left cheek as he scrolls down the page. I know what comes next: a photo of a woman resting her hands on the mattress, waiting. I cross my wrists, just like the photo, and I wait. ‘He is silent, but his pulse races along with yours. You can feel it: each of your hearts thrumming with desire, imagining his palms opening and closing while he contemplates your thighs, your bottom, white with wanting. You lick your lips and exhale, readjust your hips while you wonder at his thoughts. I lift my hips here, the unfamiliar weight of the computer on my butt making me uncomfortable. “Be still,” he says and […]

Fortitude

An email to D: May 24, 2010 Last night we talked about punishment, intensity and your control over my “sentencing”. Why does the thought of punishment turn me on? I don’t enjoy the pain of punishment — I think that much is obvious. But I love being held accountable and knowing that your expectations of me are high. As much as that paddle hurt, I replayed those moments while Ed [my vibrator] worked his magic last night. Those were the images I came to. Specifically I focused on the moments between each stroke, when I was trying to find my balance and you were there to help me recover. It truly felt like a collaborative effort. You didn’t withdraw your affection from me during the punishment. It wasn’t cold or angry. But you didn’t go lightly either. It turns me on that you can identify what is needed and have the fortitude to see it through, however unpleasant it might be. How unpleasant was it for you, I wonder? November, 2011: I unzip. Although your hand is now relaxed by your side, the index finger still holds its point — prepared to command at my slightest hesitation. I am trembling. My mouth opens as if to object but instead I swallow a great gulp and do as I am told. I can’t bear to look at you so, with my jeans and panties at my knees, I glare at your waist instead. I don’t want to know what you’re feeling. […]

Reminder before Dinner

I debate the merits of earrings while he dresses behind me.  My gaze in the mirror shifts to him working his way up to the second button, unzipping his freshly-ironed pants to tuck his shirt neatly into them, re-zipping and then sliding a belt through the loops. We are expecting company, and due to my earlier preparation, I am calm. The table is set with an eclectic mix of white dishes and antique Fostoria. Gladiolas drink from the tall, clear vase in the kitchen as the salmon absorbs its syrupy, nutty topping in the oven.  Tomatoes have been skewered with fresh mozzarella, basil and oil; a spinach salad chills in the fridge next to a platter holding our dessert of individual cheesecakes topped with chocolate shavings. All that is left is the stuffed apricot appetizer, awaiting assembly. The apricots, due to their tendency to dry, should be prepared just before everyone arrives, in just under an hour. The finishing touch will be mascara to distract from what I hope will be red-rimmed eyes. There is time then, I think, as I place my wine glass on the dresser and turn to make my request.  It is a practiced speech but still difficult to manage. “I drink too much,” I blurt, which was not how my speech was supposed to begin. “No you don’t. You drink rarely,” he counters. “Yes, I do. I drink too much around your friends.  I say things I shouldn’t say and I’m sure they all think […]

The Need

“It’s been awhile,” I whisper to the thick paddle while my finger trails its 18-inches as one might trace a lover’s sternum.  Hello, old friend. “It has.  You remember what this can do?” “It’s horrible. Really awful. I’m going to be bruised, aren’t I?” I’m going to cry. I’m going to fight to stay in position.  I’m going to beg you to stop. I’m going to remember this night and what it means, aren’t I? “Yes.” He is blunt. There will be bruises. A lump forms in my throat. I examine the thick length of wood, an implement reserved — until now — for discipline.  I look at him, weighing the paddle against the man. I am close to saying no.  Close, but then I remember us and find the strength to stand and begin to hike up my skirt, unprompted. “You’re not ready for the paddle,” he says from the bed. Hope blooms, beatific: an unasked-for reprieve. “Yet,” he pronounces. The reprieve would be brief, I realize as he pats his thighs.  It will be brief enough that I won’t have time to change my mind. Bring the paddle, I suggested earlier that week. I want to face my worst adversary with you behind me.  I want the strength to submit and emerge bruised but victorious.  I want to pay for crimes not committed, stand accused yet proven innocent.  I need the paddle. I need to take what you give, just because you give it.  

Broken Peace

Lights flash in the driveway, a car door slams, and his voice on the phone says, “Open the door.” Of course he is here, standing on my front porch in the dark, with the phone still glowing against his ear. I do what I always do — melt a little and burrow into his arms. He does what he always does — examines my face for hidden truths. I’m not sure what he sees, but with him holding me, I know that I did not mean it. I did not mean the break-up. It is as simple and as complicated as this: sometimes a girl needs rescuing from herself and this man has the hero instinct. I assume he will disappoint me; I don’t give him the opportunity. I don’t like where we’re headed; I run us off the road. I can’t face him; I break up with him on the phone. Except he won’t allow it. Because he knows me. When I have finally inhaled enough of him, I pull away and realize that he is annoyed. Of course he is annoyed. He’s just driven an hour — in the middle of the night — because he thought I was ending our relationship, and I greeted him with a hug. Just like old times. “If you wanted me here, you could have just asked,” he said. “I didn’t want you here until I saw you here,” I answered. Silence. “Was there something you needed to tell me?” He asked, […]

Girls Who Want to be Spanked

We are the girls who want to be spanked. Some of us pretend that we don’t. We feign indignance, innocence, and incredulity when a spanking is promised. We say, “No, no, but we are too good,” while licking our lips and waiting for our misdeeds — subtle as they are — to be noticed. We are the girls who need to be spanked before we’ll admit that we like it. Some of us beg for it. We are bright pink and dripping. We need no reason. We have felt the hand, the brush, the cane, the belt. Though it hurts and we try to escape each stroke, we are lively in our submission and lift our bottoms amid protests, straining to feel even more. Spanking is our strawberry dipped in the chocolate of his words and we love chocolate-covered strawberries. Then there are those of us who don’t actually like to be spanked. We want the lecture and the forgiveness, not the actual spanking. If we could skip it, we would. But the speech before and the reconciliation after would not feel the same without the submission and the spanking in the middle. We know it wouldn’t be the same without the spanking. Spanking is the taxi we hail to arrive at our destination. There is some of this in all of us: the pretender, the whore, and the girl who would give up spanking if there was any other way to feel this warm. We move fluidly from one […]