We come together, and when we’re done, we move straight on into the seventies by going downstairs to smoke a joint together and drink some Chianti straight from the straw-covered jug. We shed our clothes entirely, and after that we’re in the eighties and we chase each other around the house to the Clash.
I eventually let him catch me and he drapes me over the back of the couch for some anal and a Temple of the Dog song, Chris Cornell’s rich, beautiful voice in my ear, exhorting me to say hello to heaven.
We waste a whole decade cleaning up afterwards, and every time our glances meet, we smile secret, wicked little grins at each other. We go back upstairs and turn down the bed, and then we lay back with a sigh.
Now we’re back in our own time, our own century and millennium.
Until next time, that is, and who knows where we’ll be then.
Or when.
Another Man’s Hand
“It’s not my fault.”
“I don’t care,” he says, jerking me off my feet.
“That guy put his hand on my ass. I didn’t put mine on his.”
“Well, you didn’t exactly look like you were fighting it off, either.”
He starts smacking my jean-clad butt, and that might not sound like it’d hurt much, but let me tell you, he really knows how to spank. I start squirming around, trying to evade the smacks, but they only get harder.
“You’d better learn to lie still,” he tells me, but it’s hard to. It’s really hard to just lie there like a stone while somebody’s beating your ass, and sometimes your hand has a mind of its own.
Like mine.
It shoots back, and he grabs me by the upper arm and makes me get off his lap.
“Well,” he says, “I wasn’t going to use the paddle, but I am now. Go get it.”
“Which one?”
See, we practice Domestic Discipline in our house, and we’ve been doing it for a long time, so we have lots of toys.
“How about the rosewood one?”
“No, please? Not that one.”
“Go. And you’d better be back by the time I count ten.”
When I bring the paddle back to him, he makes me take down my jeans and get back over his lap.
“Stick your hand back,” he tells me, and I do. “Now open it up.”
He smacks my open palm with the heavy rosewood paddle, and I let out a cry.
“Again,” he tells me, and after he gives my hand another good smack, he tells me to keep it in front of me where it belongs.
He puts the cold, smooth wood up against my bottom and it feels good, nice and smooth and cool, like an ice cube on a burn, but only for that one split second, because the next moment he’s back at it, this time with the paddle instead of just his hand.
Two, maybe three swats in and I’m making some noise.
“Please, honey. I’m sorry.”
“You will be.”
He goes on, spanking and spanking, making me kick and moan. He doesn’t mind too much when I kick, as long as I don’t kick him, which sometimes I do by accident.
“All right, get up,” he tells me. “Get those pants all the way off. Those panties, too.”
And even though we’ve been married a really long time and he’s seen me naked a ton of times, I hate when my panties have to come down for a spanking, and hate it even more when he has me take them completely off.
I don’t dare complain, though, because I know that’ll only make it worse, so I strip from the waist down and resume my place over his lap without even being told to.
“Good girl,” says he. “Ready for your lesson?”
“Yes.”
Jealousy does strange things to a man, and I don’t really blame him. If I saw some girl put her hand on his ass, I’d lose my mind, so I let it happen without a fight, let him spank me harder and harder and lecture me the whole time, as I lie there, trying my best to accept my punishment.
“Who’s ass is this?” he asks me.
“Yours.”
“And who’s the only one allowed to touch it?”
“You are.”
“I’m glad you know that,” he says. “Too bad you couldn’t remember that tonight.”
And all of a sudden, he stops
“I think it’s time for a hard lesson in reality,” he says, repositioning me so my ass is more fully in the air. He hooks his leg over both of mine and locks me in place. “I think it’s time for some thigh work, and when I’m done with you, you’re going to suck my dick.”
I’m already sniveling, but hearing that makes me sob out loud.
Not that I don’t like to suck his dick, because I do.
A lot.
I just don’t like my thighs beaten, is all.
He starts in on me, each word a different blow.
“Having. Another. Man’s. Hand. On. Your. Ass. Is. Against. The. Rules. Do. You. Understand. Me?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. Please.”
He stops again and eases his grip.
“Get up,” he tells me. “Get up so I can get my pants off.”
* * *
He takes off his pants and I settle between his knees. It’s hard to suck his cock with tears streaming down my face and my nose all snotted up, but I do my best. I reach for his dick and guide it into my mouth, and he gives a groan of pure pleasure.
“Good girl,” he says again. “Good girl. Suck it good.”
I start tonguing his cock, swirling my tongue around and around the tip the way I know he likes, using my other hand to play with his balls. My ass and thighs feel like they’re going to combust, and it’s pretty distracting, but I try my best to concentrate.
“Suck it good, baby.”
He grabs a handful of my soft, brown hair, but he doesn’t need to encourage me, because after all this time together, I know exactly what he likes. I take his cock out of my mouth and butterfly my tongue all the way down his shaft, taking light, dainty licks of his balls when I get to them. I wish I could lick further, but my tongue’s too short, so I have to rely on sweet-talk.
“You’re so fucking special,” I tell him, sitting up and working his cock with my hand as we make eye contact. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” he says, and I smile at him and lean back in to pop him into my mouth. “I couldn’t love anyone more.”
With that, I start tonguing the bumpy little ridge under the tip, around and around, and the truth is, my husband can come from that alone, but I want to make this way more than just a perfunctory mid-week blow-job, so I reach in with my free hand to fondle him.
There’s a place down there, right above his balls and right below the base of his cock, where I can use my thumb and he’ll go off like a rocket. It must be similar to a woman’s clit, because he nearly sobs with relief when I work him there, and even better, if I suck him and tongue him and squeeze him at the same time, I can feel it when he comes. I can feel his sperm come shooting past my tongue, up through his cock and out for a devastatingly powerful orgasm.
He’ll forgive me anything if I make him come like that, but truly, there’s nothing to forgive. The man he was angry about, the man who touched my ass, is someone I don’t even like, some joker who took liberties with my body. And the truth is, even if I did like him, I’d never have invited such contact.
I love no one but my husband, can stand no one else around me for very long, and I’d never do anything to cause him any harm.
“I’m gonna come,” he tells me, his voice excited. “I’m gonna come.”
And he does, just like I described, and he squirts all that lovely come into my mouth. I swallow it up, even though I’ve never understood why men think that’s so great.
I have to give my husband a few minutes to recover and
he sits there, his head thrown back and his one hand still threaded through my hair, hair I have to dye these days to hide the gray. When he finally opens his eyes and looks down at me, he finds me smiling again.
“I know you didn’t do anything bad,” he admits. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that.”
And I say, “Oh, baby, I don’t mind that. It’s fun to pretend I’m in big trouble.”
“But, still...”
“No. Hush. It puts me in my sub-space faster.”
He grins and runs his hand down to my chin, his gaze locking with mine.
“I don’t deserve you,” he tells me.
And I say, “That’s okay. I love you anyway. Now get up. You owe me an orgasm.”
And he says, “Yeah, I do.”
The Not-So-French Maid
It was around Christmas time when he first started spanking me like this, and here we are in mid-July. He calls me from work, and even though I didn’t think I’d like it at first, my pussy responds at once.
“I want to spank you later.”
Later on, he calls me again from work and says he has a surprise waiting for me in his closet. I take the phone with me and, opening his closet door, see the cute little French maid’s costume hanging there amongst his clothes.
On the closet floor’s a package of seamed stay-up stockings and a pair of black rhumba panties, tucked in under an ostrich-feather duster.
“We’re really going all out, aren’t we?” I ask him.
His response is a wicked chuckle.
“Hang up and get ready,” he tells me, and I have no problem obeying. I slip the outfit from its hanger and toss it on the bed. I can’t wait to try it on, so I hurry into the shower, ’cause I want to be all fresh when he gets home.
I towel off, and then at last, I start to get ready.
The scenario’s already playing out in my mind, and I’m the star, the naughty French maid who needs to be taught a lesson. My darling husband is the stern employer, and he’ll be the man who teaches that lesson.
It’s a common enough scene for role-playing couples, true, but that doesn’t stop it from being fun.
I whip out the curling iron and I’m able to manage some very pretty spiral curls that spill down the back of my head. After that, the make-up’s a breeze, so I hurry through it so I can put the dress and stockings on, almost giddy with excitement.
I glance in the mirror, pleased with my appearance.
James’ll really like this.
I take the feather duster and go into the living room and I bend myself over the arm of James’s chair, just to see what it’s like. I pretend I’m over his lap even now, James contentedly swatting my upturned butt, and I pretend to thrash around and sob, but the hard chair arm’s nothing like James’s warm, soft lap, so I give up.
A sudden inspiration strikes me and I go back into the bedroom to get the container of baby powder I keep in there. I bring it back out with me to the living room and I pour some into my hand, blowing it onto the coffee table to simulate household dust. I do that with all the other furniture, too, and then I return the powder to its rightful place.
James will certainly be impressed by my ingenuity. He loves play-acting every bit as much as I do.
After all, we did meet in our community’s Little Theatre.
Glancing at the clock, I see it’s nearly time for him to get home. I pick up the feather duster, ready to go the minute he walks through the door.
“Fifi?”
Fifi. Oh, well. What he lacks in originality, he makes up for in stamina, so I come forward, the duster still in my hand.
“You know I like you to meet me at the door with an Old Fashioned,” he says, pretending to scold. “What do I pay you for?”
“I don’t know, Monsieur.”
He steps past me and sets his keys down on the entry table, then he goes straight into the living room.
“Look at this place,” he tells me, and I can see he appreciates my attention to detail. “It’s filthy. What on earth have you been doing all day?”
“I’m sure don’t know, Monsieur.”
He runs a finger over the fake dust on the coffee table.
“Filthy. And not even a hot dinner ready for me.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Monsieur.”
“I’ve heard that from you before, Fifi. I’m afraid time it just isn’t working. I think I’ll have to fire you.”
“Oh, no, Monsieur,” I say, dropping to my knees. “Anything but that.”
“No. You have to go. You definitely have to go.”
I seize his hands and kiss them frantically, begging for pity, explaining how I’m the sole support of an aged mother and a twelve-year-old sister.
“They will starve if you turn me out.”
He looks down at me, his lips set in a convincingly grim line.
“Well,” he tells me, weakening. “Maybe there is another way.”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur, anything. Anything you desire.”
He helps me to my feet and leads me by my arm toward the couch.
“Anything?” he asks. “Even a spanking, to teach you to do better in future?”
I pretend to gasp.
“Oh, no, Monsieur, I could not.”
“Well, then, you have to leave.”
“Please, Monsieur, not that. I cannot go home in such disgrace.”
“Then come here and take what you deserve.”
With that, he sits down and pulls me over his lap.
“Last chance, Fifi. It’s the spanking or the door. You decide.”
“Oh, Monsieur...”
“Is that a yes?”
I nod reluctantly and settle myself on his lap. He grabs my hip and pulls me into a more favorable position, and then he lifts my stiff, frilly skirt.
He sighs when he catches a glimpse of my ruffle-clad bottom, and spends a good few moments fingering the lace.
“Very nice, Fifi. Very nice indeed. It’s a terrible shame you won’t be needing these panties during your lesson.”
His voice low and intimate, he runs his hand down the seams of my stockings, sighing again. He makes me lift up a little, and I feel him hook his fingers into the elastic and pull down my panties. He leaves them at half-mast, but I know they won’t stay there for long. Pretty soon, I’ll be flopping like a carp and they’ll slide their way down, and quite possibly off.
“Ah, that’s the way I like it. A blank, empty sketch pad, waiting just for me.”
I groan, my heart pounding hard for real now. I clench my butt and swallow convulsively, but I don’t say a word.
What words can I say, anyway? I’m within moments of getting my ass beat like a child. I only hope I can bear it gracefully, because even though we’re just pretending, in truth, he’ll do it like he means it, like it’s for real. Often enough he’s left me weeping and shuddering, weak at the knees and truly chastised.
“Well, Fi, you have to admit, I’ve been very lenient with you so far.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“I’ve tried to overlook your slovenly habits, but today’s the last straw.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“I’m going to spank you quite hard. You know that, don’t you? Have you ever been spanked before?”
“Oui, Monsieur. My papa used to do so.”
“Did he? Tell me about it.”
“He used to force me over the back of a chair, my hands on the seat, and then he’d pull up my skirt, just as you have done, and bare me for the razor strop. And then, Monsieur, he would strap me until he felt I’d learned my lesson.”
James lays his hand on my bare butt and begins tracing little circles with his palm.
“Well, then, you can count yourse
lf fortunate. I’ve nothing like a razor strop to use on this tender little behind of yours.”
“No?”
“No. Not this time, anyway.”
He enlarges the circles, encompassing my entire buttocks as he chafes and warms me, readying me for the spanking to come.
“No, Fifi, your punishment won’t be as drastic as that. But tell me, did you learn your lesson after your papa beat you?”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur, of course I did. He only found it necessary to give me a handful of whippings my whole life.”
James sighs, moving his hand near the top of my stockings, caressing the bare skin on my sit spot.
“Did he sometimes slip and spank your thighs by mistake?”
“Often, Monsieur.”
“And when he was done, did you sometimes go into your bedroom and look at your bottom in the mirror, to see how many welts he gave you?”
“Oui, Monsieur, and there were always many. My father believed in doing the job thoroughly. I always had bruises for days afterwards.”
“Then this will seem like a picnic, Fifi, as I’ve no intention of being quite so severe with you. Just severe enough so you’ll remember what I expect from you in future.”
“Yes, Monsieur. Thank you, Monsieur.”
Anxious for him to begin, I lay my forehead on my arms, which are propped onto the seat cushion.
“All right, then. I’ll get started, but if I ask you a question, I want it answered immediately, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
With that, he lays the first swat on my upturned butt. It’s a firm, solid swat, hardly painful at all. Nevertheless, I cry out.
He strikes me again, this time a little harder.
James likes for me to be vocal during a spanking, so I oblige him, and he draws back and smacks me again.
This time it really hurts.
“Ow, Monsieur.”
Having hit his stride, James begins in earnest, spanking each cheek separately but equally, reddening my ass as I cry out with each blow. It still doesn’t really hurt, but I squirm on his lap and throw my right hand back to cover my bottom anyway.
Brattitudes Page 3
