Preacher Man Ch. 01

This is part one of the first 'love scene' in a story I'm currently working on. 'Preacher Man' is about the relationship that develops between a senior pastor of an aging and struggling suburban congregation, and an agnostic Dominatrix. The preacher is a tormented soul - simultaneously wanting to be the perfect husband to his cold, asexual wife, but needing the intensity of his newfound Dominatrix to fulfill his desperation for passion, and give him the fiery motivation to save and grow his congregation. *Note* I've been asked about Judy, and why she starts this scene. The short answer is that I decided to do something shocking with the story and show a woman being valued, appreciated, and respected as a human being and not simply a sexual vessel. GASP! (I know. I'm writing on the edge!)

*

I carried the boxes the short, frigid distance to Judy's car. She rushed ahead a few steps to pop the trunk. "This was a great idea," I praised, arranging them to fit her trunk space. A light snow was falling, and the soft, large flakes landed into the trunk, moistening the tops of the bins.

"I think so," she agreed in her unembellished way. "I'll have to see what else the library has to loan out that would work for large groups." Judy - the real force keeping the church operational. I was just the frontman.

"Good night, Pastor," she said, eagerly entering the shelter of her car.

"Have a good night," I replied, and rushed back to the warmth of the building.

I locked the double glass doors, but remained and watched as she started the car, letting the engine warm for a minute, then pulled away. The neighborhood was far from rough; the most excitement the police ever saw was alcohol fueled on the weekends. But still, it was dark out, and Judy being a woman, I felt a responsibility to see her safely on her way.

Everyone was gone - just me an Marla, somewhere in the building. Should I go find her? Should I go to my office and wait? I decided on my office, and walked the up the short flight of stairs, my steps echoing into the quiet.

I turned on the light, and critically perused the room. Would Marla find it too messy? Tina forcefully offered her cleaning services to remedy the situation every time the office came to her tidy, rigid mind - she hated it in here. Darn, I should have taken the time to straighten it up. I walked to the window and closed the old, faded curtains, then turned to my desk and started stacking papers and reference books, wondering how this was going to work, and if I was making one of the larger mistakes of my life.

Marla appeared in the doorway, looking relaxed and beautiful. "Hi," I said too loudly. She laughed and entered, closing and locking the door behind her. She let her large bag of a purse slip off of her shoulder onto the couch, placed her coat over the arm, and began a tour of her surroundings.

"I was just trying to pick up. It never does get much cleaner than this, truthfully," I said apologetically. She smiled and walked around, completely indifferent to the mess I had just called to her attention, being mostly interested in surveying the titles, photographs, and bric a-brak on the old, dark, built-in oak book cases. I stood paralyzed. Maybe I should ask her to leave - tell her that this was a mistake. She walked to the couch and sat, bringing her bag to her lap.

I started a nervous chatter. "I just saw Judy out. Those parachutes were a great idea. She's going to see what else..." Marla seemed barely politely interested as she went into her bag. "...the library has along those lines...." Marla pulled out a long, menacing wooden paddle. Whatever else I had intended to prattle on about was gone. My breath quickened, and my heart pounded. I was greatful for the desk separating us. I fought a fight or flight urge, and stood there watching her rise from the couch and walk to my desk.

"Come here," she said, looking me firmly in the eyes. I forgot how to move my feet. She patiently stared at me, saying nothing.

I moved from behind the protection of my desk to where she stood. "Face your desk," she instructed firmly. There was a heavy pause before I did as she said. She didn't give further instruction immediately, and I thought it best not to take any initiative. The knowledge that she was about to paddle me, a 41 year old grown man, leader of an entire congregation, with a wooden paddle, apparently over my very own desk, was fighting to sink in. I felt so embarassed, so panicked, so thrilled. Some part of me wanted and needed it badly enough to be obeying this woman's commands, and here I was....

"Drop your pants to your ankles. Leave your boxers on," she ordered, interrupting my thoughts. I hesitated a long time, and heat rushed over my face to my eyes.

"Is there a problem?" she demanded.

"I'm so ashamed," I responded meekly. "And I'm afraid." I kept my eyes fixed on the desk in front of me. I should be sitting comfortably in that chair directly across from where I stood - the kindly, wise pastor, offering advice, making decisions... not standing here with my pants around my ankles, terrified and awaiting a spanking.

"This is an incredibly intimate thing we're about to do. In some ways, more intimate than sex.I can't force you to do this - it has to be consensual. If it's your career you're afraid of jeopardizing..."

"It's not," I stated.

"Then let's try this again. You are an adult, and fully capable of saying, 'No thank you'. That being said, drop your pants."

At least my boxers would stay on - a solace.

I fumbled with my belt, and pulled it from the loops of my pants, placing it on the corner of the desktop in front of me. I undid the button, and unzipped the zipper, and lowered my pants to my ankles. I felt naked, despite my shirt, shoes, and boxers still being on.

"Lean over the desk."

I bent over the desk stiffly, my upper body barely touching the cold surface. My hands gripped the desk edges in front of me. The sensation of vulnerability flood my consciousness. My head remained elevated, staring forward.

"Do you understand that you may call the safe word at any time?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Do you understand that this is going to hurt?"

"Yes," I said, my buttocks tightening in anticipation of a first blow.

"Then ask me politely for it, and you may call me 'Mistress' when we are alone in this room together."

Tears started to form in my eyes. I felt so little, so dominated. "Mistress, may I please receive my spanking now?" my voice cracked. It felt surreal - as if the words were not coming from my own mouth. The first swat came, delivering heat and sting across the width of my bottom. She was right, it did hurt, but to my relief, it didn't feel in and of itself unbearable. Wait, how many of these was she intending to deliver? What if I couldn't take what she was about to dish out? A second swat came, and then a quick third. I couldn't bear the humiliation of it - if I wasn't man enough to take my spanking, as bizarre as that sounded. A fouth, a fifth, a sixth. Tears were fighting to slip from my eyes. One escaped and dripped onto the desk. I can't let her see me crying over this - a few swats.

"Crying already?" she asked. "Does it really hurt that badly?"

"No, Mistress. I can take it. It's just emotional stuff - how new all this is to me."

"Good, and don't be ashamed to cry. It lets me know your punishment is effective."

A seventh, an eighth. I felt great relief at her response. It was kind, despite what was transpiring. The woman who would be punishing me regularly was ultimately kind? My mind melted into this thought. 13, 14, 15, and she paused in her rhythm. I felt her hand at the small of my back as it grasped the waistband, and my shorts were yanked down, exposing me to the cold air. I gasped and instinctively began to rise. She pushed me back down on the desk. "Are you calling the safe word?" she demanded.

"No, Mistress...."

"Then you WILL remain in position!"

"Yes, Mistress." The paddle contacted my bare flesh quickly to emphasize her point. I was stunned. Fresh tears began to form. My legs had been slightly spread and I attempted to inch them together as I became accutely self conscious of what view I was giving her back there.

"Are you trying to put your legs together?" she roared.

"Yes, Mistress," I wimpered.

"Why? Don't lie to me!"

"I'm...I'm afraid you're going to see...my testicles...and...between my...cheeks," I stammered in explanation.

She kicked my legs apart wider. "These testicles?" and her hand grabbed my sac roughly from behind.

"Yes, Mistress."

She released them, then just as roughly spread my buttocks. "And this button back here?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Guess what - I've seen balls and assholes before. Back into position!" Again, kindness.

"I'm apparently not punishing you thoroughly enough if your mind is going all these other places. Count to 15!"

"One," I said strongly. The paddle came down hard. "Two." something strange overcame me around eight. I wanted 15 to be 20, or 30. The thought confused me - frightened me. "Fifteen." The paddle stopped. I didn't move.

"You're done. Stand up."

"Please, Mistress," I inadvertently moaned.

"Please, what?" she asked.

I couldn't bring myself to answer and began to rise, but she grabbed the back of my hair and forced my head down upon the desktop, her weight on me as she leaned over my body. I could feel her - her breasts pressing into me through the cotton of her sweater top, her wide hips against my body, her heated breath between my shoulder blades.

"Please what? Please don't hit you anymore?"

"No, Mistress. Please. More."

"More it is then. Beg for it," she said calmly.

"Please punish me," I begged.

"Louder!" she demanded.

"Punish me!" I yelled out into the night. I needed it. I wanted it.

The paddle again met my flesh - rapid, hard, again and again, my buttocks swelling with heat and trauma. My eyes closed in both acceptance of the pain, and appreciation of the pain. How did something that hurt like this simultaneously feel so gratifying? Why did each swat from that beautiful, cruel hand feel like a gift meant just for me?