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.