It had been a very dark and giggly night when I returned home. I was still a little giddy from girl talk and too much sugar- at least that was your presumption when you heard the door slam and instead of my customary insistence of immediate attention I careered straight past shouting “Hiiiiiiiiiiiii” as I went.
You leant back in your chair and your eyes narrowed as you watched me. I am a mixture of horribly predictable and terribly unpredictable. After a full day at work and a meal out with friends it is unthinkable that I would not want the type of immediate and definite attention that only you can give me. I would want you to kiss me, to smile at me, to pull me towards you. I should be entangling myself with you at this very moment. You know that my avoidance of you can only bode ill. You decide to wait. You have learned that all things come to he who waits- even if the things in question have no intention whatsoever of that ever happening.
I return to you, make removed, hair and teeth brushed. My going out clothes no doubt on the floor somewhere replaced with light pink cotton vest and knickers. I sit on the sofa next to you but without my customary push to be right by your side with one of your arms around me. I am very casual, determinedly so. I smile at you, “Hello you,” I say, “What are we watching?” and I look towards the TV.
I see you raise your eyebrows at me and deduce that this means nothing. I had wondered if the moment I walked in through the door your scary “Detect Stuff I Really Don’t Want You To Know” radar would have gone off and the room would have been filled with sirens and blue flashing lights. I have a smorgasbord of feelings. I feel elation that I have remained uncaught at least four minutes after being near you, I feel slight disappointment that you are not psychic and I feel apprehension about keeping up this super human effort of not telling you everything for very much longer. Fibbing to you feels naughty (which is good) but also it feels frightening, like being alone in the woods at night.
When you hold out a hand for me and I take it, you pull me towards you and I am relieved. I sit in the curve of your left arm as it rests on me, your hand on my bottom. How does it always end up there? I lean my head into your chest and listen to the steady beat of your heart. You kiss the top of my head; I smile and push closer into you.
“So how was your night?” you ask. Curses! I knew this was too good to last. All I have to do is keep my calm and not let on anything is wrong.
“Mmmmm, good thanks.” I squeeze my eyes shut. That was wrong, I know it was wrong, I would never answer like that unless I was trying to hide something. I can’t for the life of me remember how I talk when I am innocent- no! I am innocent now, I cannot remember how I talk when I am free to do as I please, unburdened by your oppressive regime. Everything is your fault; this is only a bad thing because you say that it is. I allow my eyes to open just as I feel your fingers draw light circles on my left bum cheek- I shut them again and lean further into you.
The thing is you very often touch my bum – you do it with great skill and in a variety of ways. The fact that I have possibly the most eclectic and aesthetically pleasing collection of knickers in the Western world is in no way my encouragement of this- it is a happy coincidence. But I know you, I know a little of what you are thinking and sometimes I know that even tiny innocent gestures are designed to make me a little nervous and often that is all it takes.
Not tonight however. I know that somehow I have allowed myself to do something that will get me in Proper Trouble and that admitting it would be not only foolhardy but also would hasten my demise in whatever form you dream up in your dark mind. I will cover my tracks because you are tired and are happy watching a film. It would be most callous to disturb you now.
“Do you not want to tell me about it?”
Do you know? Are you toying with me? No, I decide you are not- all I just have to keep my nerve. This is no time to be weak of spirit.
“It was fun, I had crème brulee for pudding, Amy is going to re-do her kitchen and Justine’s husband is being horrible again. Just girl stuff- you’d be bored. What are we watching?”
I marvel at myself sometimes, that was brilliant. It was succinct, frothy with a little detail, perfect. I should give a class in this.
“So, nothing out of the ordinary happened then? Nothing you need to tell me? Hmmm?” Your voice vibrates through my cheek as I nestle against your check. I squeeze my eyes shut. The sensation feels somehow ominous.
You know, you definitely know. How do you know? Did someone tell on me? Were you on the next table?
“Nothing at all- I could run through all the stuff we talked about- you would just get bored.”
“That was a fib wasn’t it?”
How on earth do you know that?
Sometimes this odd thing happens to me and I get so taken up with not getting caught that it feels like I am right and you are wrong. Even though I did something you have told me that I may not do, everything is your fault for being all suspicious. I am caught up in self righteousness. I am very much going to brazen this out now. The best defence is a good offence.
“No, that was not a fib. I just didn’t want to be dull but if you really want me to I will give you a blow by blow account of the whole evening. Honestly, I was trying to be considerate. Can’t you stop being so ruddy inquisitive all the time?” My tone is snappy and short and above all, it is righteous.
I try to pull away a bit. I am annoyed. I hate myself right now. I hate myself for lying, for being mean, for everything I have done wrong. But I cannot and will not admit this to you or myself. I am miserable but cover it with anger. I feel sick. I want you to leave me alone, I need for you to come and get me. I am stuck. I am silent. I have no idea how or why I get like this.
Every other man that I have ever known would apologise now. I would win. I would be devastated, alone, afraid.
I try to pull away, I want to sit up as that is what self righteous people do- they do not remain calm and lean on the chests of their accusers. I am thwarted in this simple effort by your grip and I feel my momentary grasp of power fly from my fingers.
You do not really move, you just do not release me from your left arm. I push against your chest with my hands but my heart is not really in it. I want you to keep me with you and I want you to make me safe again. I also know that I am scared of what will happen next.
It comes as no surprise when you move me to lie over your lap. I suppose you know I have been lying anyway but when I just go where you put me without the usual theatrics – the cat is out of the bag for sure.
I am so miserable when you start to spank me that it surprises even me. Your hand is always surprisingly strong and hard but it is worse when I am already softened up with guilt. Right from the start you spank me as hard as I have never known you to spank. It shocks me and despite my guilt and my need I buck and scissor and do all I can to escape. At first you do not say a word and spank me over my cotton knickers- two very out of character happenings. I feel my bottom burning and sore right away.
But then you stop.
Your voice is deep and steady and its tone makes my stomach feel like it is dropping from a great height.
“I don’t know what’s got into you this evening. I have no idea what happened when you went out. All I know is that the attitude stops right now and so does the fibbing.”
I hate the word, “Fib”. It makes me feel about four years old and you know it. But what makes me feel even more out of control and humiliated is the way you then raise your knee to lift me and slowly and with great ceremony pull down my knickers. How can one girl be anymore humiliated than I am right now? I search in me for anger and find none. I just want to slide off your lap into the floor and escape into the ground.
But you lock me down with your arm and continue to spank me. You do not scold me, you do not ask me any questions you just spank and spank and spank. I try to sound pitiful but I can’t manage it. I just yelp and shout bits of words. It hurts so much I just want to escape.
At last you stop. I feel swollen, sore, burning, burning scarlet and just want you to comfort me. I wait face down for you to take me into your arms. I am ready for that.
I want for you to welcome me back, to forgive me but I know that if you do I will still be lost. I am silent and do not say a word of this. I just listen. Your hand rests possessively on my bottom, even the light weight of your hand reminds me of how sore it is. I feel the vibration of your voice through your stomach as you speak.
“I have no idea what the problem is with you tonight but I know that there is one. I have no doubt that somehow it will prove to be connected to you having a tough week. I know that it has been hard but you just have to accept that that is the way life is sometimes. There is no excuse ever for fibbing to me.”
With my face still down I murmur “I know.” I was aiming for agreement and reasonable. It sounds whiny and childish. The thing is I do know, I just have no idea how to get back to where we both want me to be. I don’t know how to tell you the truth.
“I know,” you carry on as though I had not spoken, “that something is going on with you. And” your voice raises slightly in volume just a notch over my protests of innocence which I hate myself for making “I know that you are as unhappy as I am about it.”
I suspect that you are about to make me much more unhappy than you are but I keep this observation to myself. Once every now and again I decide to make a sensible choice, just for a change.
I find myself being guided up (moment of relief) from your lap and then over to (desperate feeling of horror) the corner. You place me gently but firmly in the corner, about three feet away from the television with my knickers a distant memory. I hear your voice through my humiliation.
“Tonight you have not only fibbed but you have also spoken to me in a tone that you know I won’t allow. You, young lady, know better than that.” And from there you carry me on your voice, taking me further down into my misery as you tell me off for the horrid way I have behaved. I can only look at the floor and feel utter misery. Just once I try a half hearted and pointless attempt at self defence. You ignore my interruption, “I am not interested in what you have to say. You made your contribution to this evening- look where it got you.”
I look up into the corner. The words, “glum” and then “useless girl” pop into my head- I feel too upset to think in sentences.
I have lied. I have lied to you. I hate liars and I love you. Everything is wrong.
“Little girl you are going to stand right here where I can see your naughty bare bottom until I decide you are ready to not only tell the truth but also to pay for your fibbing.”
I make a little squeal at this and start to turn around to hold onto your shirt. I still can’t look in your eyes. Your words struck home, when you called me “Little” and what you said made me feel about one foot tall. But also the position and the vulnerability, knowing what you can see of me and how I must look and me feeling so, so guilty. It all combined and rolled around and got bigger in my head.
Despite all that I stayed silent. I bite my lip, staring down at your shirt, clenching it in my hot hand. I know you are about to turn me back around. I know that I deserve it.
“You will stay here until you admit what you have lied about and until you tell the truth. After you have done that I will think about what comes next. Hmmm?” The last part was in response to my small noise of distress.
It wasn’t a particularly concerned Hmmm , much more it was an acknowledgment of what you know I felt. I think you knew I would feel just this way from the moment you first tipped me over your knee. You planned to make me feel this way. You are totally disconnected from the distress I feel about this. I want to kick against you for that right now. I love you for that in every other moment of my life.
You put one hand very gently down to my wrist and detach me from your shirt, it doesn’t hurt but it feels like a rejection. I sign as you turn me back to the wall. I wish that I could cry. The tears won’t come- I have no glimpse of any kind of release. You have not said one unnecessary word to me. I understand that you’re not going to engage with me any further, that there is nothing I can say or do to alter your mind. I give up. I suspect you knew that I would.
You leave me there, all alone. You return (I presume although I cannot be sure) to your seat and I hear you turn the television on again. I think you are probably having a drink. I am trying very, very hard to avoid thinking about what you can see. I try to work out what is on the television, hoping so hard it makes my head hurt that whatever programme you watch is so enthralling that your eyes do not slide across to look at me.
This is when the thought or rather the image of how I must look pops unbidden into my head. My toes are pointing into each other, my knees too. My bottom is swollen it is a glowing beacon of embarrassment, a statement of my failure to get my own way. A statement about whom and what I am. My arms are hanging by my sides, limp and awkward. I cannot work out where to put them, they are like a banner, a sign of my futile objections to the position I find myself in. My shoulders and head are down. I feel silly and vulnerable. When it occurs to me that you can see me I squeeze my eyes shut against the thought.
“Please may I…” my voice breaks off but I can’t start this sentence again again, “can I just tell you now?” I hear you mute the TV. Although standing like this is more humiliation than I think I can stand it is easier than looking at you.
I hear you cross the room to collect me. You touch me, a hand on my shoulder, I lean into every sensation of you- like you are the sun, the source of gravity. I gravitate towards you. I feel relief run through me as you touch me, even though I know that I have no control over what will happen to me.
Before you can say anything to me I let the words stumble out. They bang into one another as though they are falling down stairs. “When we were out I was fed up because work has been hard and you have been busy and its been a horrid week and I wanted six glasses of wine but I was driving and could only have one and so when Justine went outside for a smoke I followed her because she was upset and she smoked and I wanted one and so I had one too and I know you said that I couldn’t.”
You stop me by turning me around and the sight of you silences me. I want to reach out and touch the buttons on your shirt. I don’t move at all though. At least I don’t until you put a finger under my chin and tilt my head up to meet your eyes. It takes a while for my eyes to follow and I try to offer a compromise by looking at your mouth. You wait for me to do what I know you want me to do. I look at you. My lips, for some reason, are tight together and pointed to the side.
“How many?” you ask.
“Four,” I say.
Smoking is one of those hard line things. I used to smoke but gave up four years before. It had been hard but I had done so without one lapse, until tonight. I asked for your help with it and you did help me. You distracted me – sometimes in ways that made me glare at you and rub my bottom but other times in ways that made me dizzy with satisfaction and joy.
“Lets see how we can sort this out then, shall we?”
You ask in a question that is not a question.
I want to argue- I can’t find one word to say.
You tell me off as you fold up your shirt sleeves. You tell me how important honesty is to us, how it is the most important part of us. You tell me how much you love me and how you would do anything for me and I know that this is true. You tell me how much faith you have in me and how every time I deceive you I let you down, I let us down and I let me down.
I feel about one inch tall.
Your blue eyes look straight into mine as very slowly and deliberately you slip your brown leather belt from between the loops in your jeans. I fear a rush of genuine fear go through me. I cannot take my eyes away from what you are doing. My shoulders fall down even lower, I consider following them. I know that you are aware of the affect that you are having.
“I’m scared.” I whisper to you. Neither of us sees the slightest conflict between you being the source of both my fear and my comfort.
“This is going to hurt but you know that I will never harm you.” Your voice is much steadier than mine. I trust you so entirely that this affirmation is all that I need. I know that you know how to do everything that I have ever needed you to do. I just had never even considered that one day I might have needed you to do this. Now- just because the belt is in your hand I believe that this must be exactly what I need or deserve, or something. No matter how I feel about it.
You take my hand in one of yours and lead me to the high backed brown leather chair in the corner of the room. Seeing your authority I follow you. I feel focussed on you as I ignore the belt dangling from your right hand. Standing to my left you guide me over the high and broad arm, it is cushioned and almost comfortable but then you tip me a little further forward and so my feet are off the ground. For a moment I feel a sense of panic and I start to try to shift backwards and to move my legs and feet to gain purchase and escape.
You are so resolute that you simply put one hand on my back and another on my bottom and with gentle but immovable strength place me back where you want me.
With me positioned thus you start to scold me once more. I don’t want this; it makes everything so much worse.
You remind me how much I wanted to stop smoking, how hard it was. You said how proud you had been of me- which made everything else you said so much worse. You told me how all of this was beside the point – I had been given a rule that I would not under any circumstance smoke. Did I remember that? You wait for an answer forcing a miserable and high pitched “Yes, Sir.” from me. My cheeks are burning with shame, at my position, my predicament and at what I know you are holding in your hand.
You then tell how I lied. You pause over the words. I lied. I lied to you. I shake my head a little to get the words out. But still, I lied.
You ask me if I am ready and I have no response to give. I nod. I feel you hook one finger under my chin and bend down and raise my head slightly so that I can see you. “Little girl,” your voice is so deep I can feel it in my stomach, “Do you think that this is the time to be nodding at me?” My voice is a whisper, “No, Sir.” I can hardly bear to look at you. You smile a grave smile and kiss my forehead as you release back to my shame. This is only bearable because you love me.
I curl my toes, I try to relax and I manage for the three seconds it takes for you to find a position and to take careful aim. Each slap of the belt against me burns as it shouts at me of my own shame. Your strokes are slow, measured, calm and constant and seem to go on forever. You do not lecture me, there is no need. Your belt speaks of my regret and your regret. It speaks for us both; it is all we need to say.
The sound of your leather on my skin intimidates me.
The pain builds in a way that takes all my strength not to scream at you to stop.. You take me through fear, shame, and regret; you take me a long way past pain. I feel scorched, I will do anything at all to stop you and there is not one thing that I can do to so much as soften one stroke.
I hear myself start to cry. I feel my shoulders shake. I feel myself released. You do not release my body. On you go, taking me home, driving me back to the sanctuary you offer with your belt.
Eventually, I feel you change position so that you are directly behind me. I hear your zip undo and I hear you adjust your clothing. I know that I need you. I need you to be in me, to be so close to me that there is nothing between us, not a word, not a thought, not a deed.
You tip me higher over the back of the chair, tipping me forward so that I am presented to you. I know it takes very little effort for you to tip me forward so that the smallest bit of privacy I had left is gone. For the first time tonight I don’t care about being exposed. I just want to be wanted by you. I want you to take me with force and with love.
My legs are wide open as you move between them – for just a moment I feel your erection touch my thigh and my stomach contracts with anticipation. You position me with one hand on my hip and suddenly with one smooth long thrust you are deep, deep within me. I feel my breath shoot out of me with a gasp. It does not occur to me to be ashamed of how ready for you I am. With both your hands on my hips you control my movement completely as you pound into me. I can only hold my arms out to steady myself and breathe in time to your movements. I think that I will pass out when I feel your right hand reach around; you find the core of me without hesitation.
As ever you know just how to touch me, the pressure is exquisite, a gentle force and the speed of your fingers matched perfectly to the speed of your thrusts. I would open myself to you completely if I could. There is no part of me that is not yours. The pain of where you have left me welted is made more acute each time you push into me. Your hand is on my left hip controlling me. You share the strength of yourself with me. I shake and buck and arch my back so far up that you catch my shoulder in your right hand and pull in even further onto you as you shake your self into me with a low roar of completion.
Slowly as I return to myself, suddenly aware of my discomfort again. My stomach lurches and drops as I hear you whisper in my ear, “That’s one cigarette paid for. We will do the next one tomorrow, honey.” You kiss my back and I catch sight of your belt left curled on the floor as you reach forward to guide me up at last.
Filed under: Indigo Sigh, spanking | 3 Comments
Tags: belt, cornertime, spanking
I am away on business and the prep was a bit involved so I ran down my stock of standbys. There are a few coming up but none ready so meanwhile here is a picture.
Filed under: art | 3 Comments
Tags: OTK, spanking
Sorry for the absence of Vintage Sunday and the lack of a Weekly Round-Up. I had thought I had queued one up but the weekend got way from me. It has been is and is going to be a busy couple days so posts will be hit and miss this week.
Meanwhile, here are some previously unused cornertime pictures.
Filed under: corner time, Weekly Round-up | 7 Comments
Pulled this one off Colarme.
Interesting you should say that – I think you always have to be careful when meeting someone. On the other hand to get anywhere you sometimes have to take risks. I get punished for not taking adequate precautions when I meet strangers for scenes – as I should be. But then if I had always been good I wouldn’t have met Daddy in the first place.
When I was 23 and never been spanked I joined Fetlife and learned about a munchie a few miles from where I live. I talked for ages with a guy before agreeing to meet him. I have to say it was a disappointment with the usual sados and little cliques chatting. But I did go a few times more.
That’s when I met Daddy. Again not what I was looking for – let’s face it and older guy, balding with a scary way about him. But he did invite a group of us back to his place. It all seemed quite safe.
It was scary and exciting, but mostly consisted of chat. Then D got out his collection of canes and taws. One of the girls got giggly and pushed him into it and I could tell he was not impressed. All the same things got exciting when she volunteered to take a few swats.
In the end there were three girls, me and two others, none of us knew each other really or D, we were just those left at the pub from the munchie. It ended up with each of us girls agreeing to six of the best with a leather strap.
It was to be my first ever punishment.
You can imagine the butterflies and seeing a girl bend over for six on the seat of her jeans was mind blowing to me then. She took them well, although she did a bit of dancing around after with her hands grabbing her bum.
The next girl, older than me was a beginner too and she made a fuss. She jumped up at each stroke and yelled before he even hit her. She took so long to take six that I got cold feet. I chickened out and made my excuses.
I hadn’t got two streets when I kicked myself. This had been what I was waiting for and I had blown it. I don’t know how, why or anything but I went back. I felt a fool and by the time I got there the other two girls had gone.
D just looked at me and smirked and I nearly ran away. But then he invited me in and asked me if it was really my first time.
He told me not to piss him about and told me if I was serious I would have to be punished properly. The deal was I could call it off at any point but if I stayed I would take 12 strokes on the bare bottom while bending over the arm of his armchair.
I was soooo scared I nearly wet myself. I was also so shy taking my skirt and knickers off to bend right over with everything on show. He didn’t mess about either. The leather came down with a terrific noise and even bigger sting. I didn’t cry or yell at first, I was too stunned. But by the end of 12 I was crying and yelling.
My bum was red, my face was red but I felt like I had entered a whole new world.
We talked about stuff then – especially what I had thought about, dreamed of and the sort of fantasies I had had. Over the next month I went to see him every week to do a scene. I say a scene, it was mostly totally real when we did it.
First was a school session. God I cried and it really hurt. Then I was a maid. That included some housework and humiliation. We did a medical one at some point and I got my first enema.
We still do scenes but its more than that now, we have a Daddy/daughter mentor thing with real rules and real consequences.
Filed under: M/F, real life, web round-up | 4 Comments
Her father was dead. That was the way it went sometimes. There was still the herd to get to Abilene and if they could cross the mountains before the snow then they might just save the ranch.
Jane Campbell-Lane thought herself as a hard woman for a hard country. Her black unkempt hair was hauled back to a practical bun giving her a masculine appearance head on. Or at least it would have done if her features hadn’t been unmistakably feminine. Even her heavy dark brow complimented this despite the mean dark-eyed look she gave the world from under them.
Her attire too was mannish. She had opted for denim pants rather than a riding skirt, but here too the harsh cotton clung to her ample curves in a way that city folk might have considered obscene.
“Go easy girl, no one will blame you if you fail,” her grandmother had soothed as Jane had been preparing the herd to go.
Jane had swung the jet black horse round in a tight animated circle to glare at her elder. “No one will blame me until you have nothing for the table old woman,” she spat.
Her grandmother’s eyes tightened. In her day she had stood with the men to fight off Indians. In her day she might too have taken the same view as Jane, but it galled her that those days had past. Still it was no way for a girl to speak to her elders. Jane had lost her Pa but Catherine Campbell-Lane had lost her only son.
“Maybe so,” Catherine said wistfully, “But despite what you say I would rather see you home and broke than not at all.”
“Then you’re the only one,” Jane hissed, “I am going make it or die trying.”
Then with a kick of the horse she raced it across the short mean grass to berate half a dozen cowhands still chewing the fat.
“You’re spending my daylight shitheads,” she yelled, “Get them doggies moving.”
Her Pa had often spoken to the men like that, but coming from her it sounded meaner.
“Yes’um Miss Campbell,” the Ramrod acknowledged with a tip of his hat. But as soon as Jane had hauled her tail to berate someone else the man spat on the ground before glaring after her.
Catherine caught the gesture and shrugged. Jim Canyon was an old friend and he was one of her husband’s first hires. But there was nothing to say. Jane was the boss now.
They were twelve days out of Albuquerque when they saw smoke.
“Grass fire I reckon,” Jim said thoughtfully.
“Reckon so,” Tom Mention agreed.
Next to Jim he was the top hand. Dark tall and lean he didn’t say much. He had been a cowhand since he had been 12 and 25 years on there wasn’t much he didn’t know about cows, horses or the open range.
“We had better swing the herd north some,” Tom suggested, his voice no more than a harsh whisper.
“That would be my thought,” Jim agreed, “But somehow I don’t think Miss Big Britches will go for it.”
“Well it’s that or risk the herd,” Tom shrugged. He frowned though. He didn’t like Jim disrespecting the boss, not that she wasn’t a right royal pain. But it had to be said that she was as good as most men he had ridden with and with her Pa dead she was up against it. She had hard choices to make and she had been making them.
“It’s her herd,” Jim sighed, but his gaze never left the ever smokier horizon.
Just then the big black horse that had been riding them since Utah thundered up with all the menace of a storm.
“What are you skanks gawping at, get back to work, your burning my daylight,” she bellowed.
“Just watching that there prairie fire ma’am,” Jim answered, his eyes still rooted on the ominous sky.
“It’s a ways off yet,” she snarled, “So don’t go afearing,” she added with a sneer.
“No call to say that ma’am,” Jim replied, “I am only saying…”
“Get them moving man, south-east, that way,” she barked, pointing slightly to the right of the pall of smoke.
“But ma’am,” Jim shot back, “The wind is…”
“If you move quick enough we won’t be here by the time the wind has anything to say,” she cut him off.
“Well that’s true enough,” Tom agreed as Jane sped off, “All we got to do is fly.”
Jim frowned and gave him a hard stare, but it didn’t take long for it to crack multiplying the smile lines on his face.
Tom laughed and slapped his thighs. Then both men shook their heads and set to work.
“You bastards, you god dammed bastards,” Jane raged, “If you had only done as I said…”
The men were silent now, mere shadows of grey in the haze of dust and smoke. Grime clung to their hollow faces so that bleary eyes peered out hauntingly through masks of dust and sweat.
An hour before the fire had finally hit the herd. Most of the steers were upwind by then and another 30 minutes and they might have got clear altogether, but now they were spooked and some had gone south while others had fled who knew where to escape.
“We nearly made it ma’am,” Jim said when he could draw a breath.
“Nearly, you old fool, nearly buys nothing. We may have lost half the herd all because…” she lit into him.
“Begging your pardon ma’am,” Tom cut her off. “Jim did mighty fine, we all did. You took a risk, some might say a foolish risk, but that was your call. I admire you for it. It nearly paid off too. But you’ve no call to speak to Jim like that.”
“Is that a fact?” Jane said with a storm-edged quiet. “You admire me do you? Foolish, but admirable, is that what you’ll put on my tombstone?” The last words exploded from her mouth.
Tom was unmoved and merely mopped his brow as if something was itching at him. “We can still probably save most of the herd, who knows, it may not be as bad as we feared, ma’am.”
“You useless lazy shit, you only had to…” Jane was incandescent. “This is Pa’s herd, my Pa, he spent his life… we might save half of it? Is that what you said? Well that’s alright then… I bet Pa is…” she continued to rage.
“Ma’am, you got no call talking to Jim like that and you ain’t got no right talking to me like that,” Tom said quietly.
“No right is it, why you…?” Jane was a dog with a bone and now she had an enemy she could see. Now she had someone she could blame.
“Ma’am, I suggest you simmer down,” Tom warned.
Jane dropped from her horse to square up to the man. Even though she came in at the height of his chest she did not pause. Then hands on hips she sucked in air for another tirade.
“You bastard, you bastard, you…” the storm broke and small fists pounded on the man’s chest why she spat the worst venom she knew.
“Ma’am, your Pa ain’t here, so I guess what’s needful falls to me,” Tom sighed.
Just to the left of them was a hillock, a grass lump not a yard high poking out of the ground. With a firm grip on Jane’s arm Tom steered the woman firmly towards it and then sat down. Jane had sprawled helplessly across his lap before she even knew what was happening.
“How did her Pa do this, it’s important?” Tom asked Jim.
“He used his belt,” Jim replied, his voice slow and sad. “The pants were taken down I reckon, but I never looked in on the barn to see for sure.”
“Nooo-nooo nooo,” Jane wailed and began to struggle. It was a futile gesture in the face of the man’s grip.
The belt made a zip-flapping sound as it cleared Tom’s pants loops. A similar action repeated at Jane’s waist.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Jane growled, her face contorted with rage.
Several men turned away as her pants slid over the smooth white domes of her bottom as it was bared. Although Jim watched until the faded blue denim was bunched all the way down to her boots. It took him that long to decide if he was going to allow this.
“Tom,” Jane gasped and slammed her small fists into the ground in a vain attempt to gain some escape leverage.
Tom pinned her hands into the small of her back with one hand and deftly doubled his belt with the other. The first thwack was like a rifle shot and Jane growled through her clamped jaw. But a dozen more quickly followed until she bucked and danced under the onslaught.
“You bastard, you… bast…” she wailed, her bottom now grazed scarlet and raw from the leather.
“I don’t talk like that in front of a lady and I won’t hear it from one either,” Tom said sternly as he continued to lay on the belt.
“Tom please,” she wailed, “Tom… Mr Mention…”
Tom’s prairie-hardened arm powered down relentlessly adding dark red fire to Jane’s already blazing bottom until her wailing gave in to full throated bawling and she broke down into convincing sobs.
Finally Tom dropped the belt and scooped the sobbing girl into his arms and held. “There you go, there,” he soothed as he gently rocked the crying woman.
It took a while but as Jane came back to herself she sobbed, “Pa would have put me in the corner about now.”
“I don’t reckon there is a corner for a hundred miles,” Tom chuckled.
Jane nodded as she used her one free hand to wipe her nose. “I’m sorry Tom,” and then with a fresh sob she heaved a breath and added, “I’m sorry Mr Canyon.”
“Don’t take on so ma’am,” Jim coughed, his back still firmly turned away. “We have a herd to save.”
“You reckon we can… save it I mean?” Jane sniffed as she got her feet and pulled up her pants.
“I reckon we can.” Jim agreed.
“Then we will push on to Abilene as soon as we have rested up,” she told him shyly, adding “and I can sit horse.”
Jim and Tim laughed, although the other men had already moved away to attend to their horses.
“Thank you Tom,” Jane whispered as she found her walking had for the moment picked up a slight limp.
“You’re welcome ma’am,” he said tipping his hat.
“Oh Tom…” she suddenly sounded anxious, “Don’t tell grandma will you?”
The grin and the shaking head seemed to contradict themselves.
“You b… beast,” she said, but when he winked she smiled.
Filed under: DJB stories, history, M/F, spanking stories, western, workplace | 2 Comments
Tags: 1880s, can't sit down, corner time, OTK, spanking
“I want this one,” Maris said with a pout.
“That one is not properly conditioned yet,” Dr Manchester said dismissively.
Dr Manchester was her uncle of sorts, and one of the world’s foremost synthetic life engineers, although you would hardly know it from his clipped grey hair, or his smart business suit and clean-cut efficiency. Manchester was no fey boffin.
Maris pushed both lips out in a tight pout and looked forlornly at the synthetic. He was tanned, tall and broad like a sports model. If his eyes had of been open Maris would have bet that they were brown and not blue as with most synthesised people.
“Besides,” her uncle continued, “I would have thought you would have preferred a girl as your assistant,” he added pointedly.
“Oh why is that?” Maris asked innocently walking now like a skater on ice with her hands primly clasped into the small of her back.
“Because you will be bonded to whomever you chose for a very long time. The relationship will be a close one,” Manchester intoned pompously, “Besides, your mother will think you up to your old tricks with 18+ modifications.”
“Oh,” Maris sucked in her cheeks as if butter was cooling there and rolled her big blue eyes. “And can’t I get up to old tricks with a girl.”
Manchester glared at her sternly and let his eye linger on her ridiculously boyish short crop and the redundant white Alice-band complete with a bow. It was an affectation, he decided, and not a declaration of a liberated sexuality. She was teasing him.
“Anyway,” Maris was pouting again, “I thought these synthetics of yours were real people once they were ‘conditioned,’” Manchester hated the term programmed in this context, “And couldn’t be altered with modifications.”
“I am glad you realise that, and that’s why I want you chose carefully,” Manchester said sharply, “Now come and look at this one. She speaks 17 languages with an inherent ability to learn new ones, including I might add machine code. Her pre conditioned Primary Purpose is as a companion/technical PA and management coordinator.”
“Hmmm,” Maris replied as she examined the cute Afro-Oriental creature gazing at her wistfully.
“But remember, she is a person with her own character and ambitions. Inherently disposed to serve, but…”
“With a will of her own, yes I know,” Maris rolled her eyes.
“She will bond with you for life and in her own inimical style pursue your interests on your behalf,” Manchester said proudly. “Think of her as a cousin.”
Maris was impressed, but having such a beauty around might backfire when it came to dating. Not that she was that interested in men at the moment, but as her uncle had said, this arrangement was for life.
“Can’t I have an unconditioned one and define the Primary Purpose myself?” she asked sullenly.
Manchester studied his adopted niece thoughtfully. At 25 she was still so immature and reckless. Maybe she wasn’t ready for a synthetic at all.
“Maris, you know perfectly well that conditioning is a skilled job and requires intense concentration over several weeks to consolidate it properly. We assign trained teams to do it,” Manchester said emphatically.
“What about sex?” Maris blurted.
Manchester startled and looked at her with something like horror. “What?”
“You said that my synth will be a companion and with me for life.” She shrugged and added shyly, “So I was wondering…”
“Oh I thought you would be happy with a girl,” her uncle teased, lightening up a little.
It wasn’t unknown, Maris thought, but he would be shocked to hear that. But she was thinking about months away on missions, sometimes in very small teams to some very remote places. It would be fun to try it, in any case.
Manchester smiled indulgently. “Listen, I’ll leave you with our friend, I can even wake her up. There is a spec on the table and you can run a compatibility analysis.”
Maris nodded thoughtfully and shrugged as she watched Dr Manchester leave the lab.
No sooner had he gone than Maris grinned and nibbled mischievously at her lower lip. Then with a rub of her hands she crept back to where she had seen the first male synthetic for a closer look. There was no real harm to be done, she thought.
Standing in front of him she barely came up to his chest. Imagine having a hunk like this around for the next 60 years. She smirked.
“Hey pretty boy,” she said breathily, “Are you awake?”
The expression on the man’s face barely changed but for a moment Maris thought she saw some movement there. She punched him firmly in the stomach to test his six-pack, not that she could see it. All the synths wore functional two piece grey coveralls.
“I guess not,” she muttered with a hint of wistful regret.
She was about to turn away and look at the girl and the specifications her uncle had laid out when the man cocked his head and then opened his eyes. They were deep metallic piercing blur. Maris gasped.
“I am not a boy,” the man said in a firm baritone.
“I can see that,” a wide-eyed Maris breathed. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I am standing up,” the man said in a puzzled voice and frowned.
“Yes but… she shook her head and shrugged, “You waiting for something?”
“I am waiting to be assigned,” he said casually and began to look around at the laboratory as if he had never seen it before, “My conditioning is almost complete, it merely needs completing and a final catalyst.”
“Well I am looking for a new… assistant, my uncle thought… that is I was wondering if you would be available.” Maris let the suggestion land gently.
“I am not yet resolved to a Primary Purpose,” the man said as if he had explained every truth in the world.
“Yes but you must be able to do something?” Maris pressed him.
“I can do many things, I have a basic skill set that includes: being a pilot, an engineer, expertise in development software, several languages, and I have the equivalent knowledge of degrees in philosophy, history, astro-geography…” he told her before taking a breath to wonder if he was being boring or irrelevant now: social skills also being part of his conditioning.
“Yes, so what’s the problem?” Maris took a step nearer and began picking at a stray strand on his coverall jacket. “And what’s your name?”
He had never been asked that before. “Adam,” he said, liking the sound of the name on his lips.
Neither of them realised that Adam was the default male name for a Synthetic who hadn’t completed conditioning.
“Adam what pretty boy?” she teased.
“Please don’t call me that,” he said sharply. His nascent social protocols were fast developing and something told him that he was being insulted.
“Why? What are you going to do about it? You don’t even have a last name.” Maris was enjoying this; the man was developing before her very eyes.
Adam frowned and drew upon his preconditioned knowledge of popular culture and literature. Previously, though he scarce remembered now, 500 ideas would juggle for prominence and consideration, but the more he formed into a true man the less such direct synthetic avenues were open to him.
“What do you want from me?” Adam asked her thoughtfully.
Maris stood closer now and pressed her forehead against his chest and then looked up conspiratorially.
“I need a companion and assistant to help me,” she said teasingly as if there was a joke she wasn’t sharing. “I travel off-world a lot and I need someone to keep me focussed,” she added, this time she was speaking from the heart as if she hadn’t really considered it before.
“Do you need some sort of guide?” he asked, still pondering her words.
Maris frowned and wondered what he was getting at. “I don’t know exactly,” she answered.
“It sounds like you do then,” he said.
“Now look here pretty boy,” she snapped and shoved him.
“I told you not to call me that,” he said, now sounding like her uncle when he was mad at her.
He could still feel her fists where she had impotently shoved him and considered appropriate responses to match them with her stated needs.
“Well you don’t have a name apparently, except for Adam and I hardly know you,” she shot back.
“Pranay, Adam Pranay,” he said, having discounted Cesar, Llewelyn and Hadi, although he barely knew it now, for in that moment Pranay had always been his name and he was truly born.
“Well alright,” Maris replied in a careful puzzled voice, “It has been nice talking to you but I think I have to go now.” She smiled nervously as she pointed back to the other side of the laboratory that Dr Manchester had first suggested.
The thing that had made her the most nervous was that she had noticed Adam’s eyes had changed. Instead of the cold blue he now had deep warm brown eyes that seemed to drill into her as if seeing all her secrets.
“But we have so much to discuss.” Adam’s voice was firm.
“Look about the pretty boy thing, let’s forget it I was just funning you and besides I really have to go now…” Maris babbled.
Adam regarded her with stern paternalism and folded his arms. His synthetic memory was entirely natural now, so he had no inkling that he had just scanned 100,000 fitting cultural references and he would never do so again in that way. But some had stuck with him, triggered by Maris’s demeanour and the interaction between them.
“Before you brief me on our next project I think we have a small matter to discuss.” His words were as steel on stone. “I think we need to start as we mean to go on.”
“Start? Go on?” Maris gulped, all her senses warned her something had changed, “I haven’t made any decision yet about…”
“Oh I think I know you have you little brat,” Adam warned, “and I am going to put you across my knee for a good sound spanking on your bare bottom.”
Maris’s jaw dropped and her tummy tightened. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said unconvincingly.
Adam Pranay was no superman, but he was physically and mentally as effective as it was possible for mortal man to be and furthermore he now knew his primary purpose. Maris was in need of firm guidance and focus, she had told him so herself.
Maris bolted, but too late. Adam took three easy strides forward and took her by the arm to lift her clear of the floor. She was no burden as he threw her over his shoulder and made for an armless chair set against the wall.
“Put me down you ape,” she yelled.
“That’s no way to speak to your executive assistant and personal mentor,” Adam chuckled, sounding more naturally human every moment.
As he sat down Maris fell easily across his lap and it was no effort for him to quickly shuck down her pants to bare her bottom.
“What are you doing?” she squealed.
“I am doing this,” he told her, this being a hard swat to her bare bottom.
The spank had a tang to it and she gasped. No less so when he spanked her again and once more in less than a few seconds.
“You can’t do this,” she yelped.
“It appears that I can,” Adam replied redoubling the pace and adding half a score of spanks in a firm volley.
“Adam,” she shrieked, “Mr Pranay… please, let’s talk about this.”
“I prefer to let my hands do the talking,” he laughed as he continued with Maris’s first spanking in a very long time.
“Oh please,” she wailed, her words now sounding damp under the onslaught; bottom and pride now competing for the hurt.
“Make your mind up to it, you are going to get a good long spanking and there is nothing you can do about. The first of many I shouldn’t wonder. We have many decades ahead of us,” he told her firmly.
“But, but, but…” she panted as she tried to ride the sting.
Adam found a strange satisfaction spanking Maris’s pert tight bottom, which was now like two red hot berries under his punishing hand. This was exactly what they both needed to get the relationship off to a good start.
“I get it, I’ll be good, no more smart mouth okay,” Maris sobbed, “You’ve got the job alright, you win.”
“It is not a job Maris it is a vocation, my primary purpose. There is no point cutting this spanking short, it will only bring nearer our next such encounter,” Adam explained his hand continuing its unrelenting fiery work.
“You don’t think… this is a one-time deal you bastard,” Maris exclaimed, “You can’t mean…”
“Oh dear, it looks like we have quite a trial ahead of us,” Adam sighed as he spanked on.
“I’m sorry okay, please,” she wailed, “No more, no more…”
“Listen my little one, I decide when you’re spanked and I decide when it stops, do you understand?” he scolded.
“Yes Sir,” Maris boo-hooed, “But I have learned my lesson.”
“This time maybe, and next time…?”
“You’ll spank me?” she sobbingly conceded.
“Now that that is clear you can go and stand in the corner…” he said setting her down, and then looking around the lab he amended, “well you can face the wall anyway.”
Maris gaped as she wept and rubbed her blazing behind. But one glare form Adam sent her scurrying to obey. Once there she struggled to gain her breath as confused and miserable she tried to find it in her to protest. This was so embarrassing.
“What on earth is going on here?” Dr Manchester asked as he rushed all anguished and flustered into the room.
“He spanked me,” Maris sobbed from her place facing the wall.
Her uncle eyed her red sore bottom and then relaxed as something of a smile broke through his frown.
“This unit was an expensive model earmarked for other work,” he sighed.
“My name is Adam Pranay,” Adam said sharply.
“Oh forgive me Mr Pranay, yes,” Dr Manchester agreed placatingly. “Is there any problem?”
“No problem at all, Maris and I have just been getting acquainted,” Adam told him.
“So I see, I guess a choice has been made then,” he said ruefully, “I think Maris and I will be getting acquainted again too when you’re done with her,” he added.
“But Uncle,” Maris gasped, still not daring to move although she was mortified that Dr Manchester could see her bare bottom, “I am supposed to be in charge,” she protested.
“You are supposed to be a team player in a symbiotic professional relationship. Usually the natural person takes the lead yes, but I think in this case that partnership will be complicated to say the very least. Why didn’t you accept the personality I chose for you?” His tone was exasperated now.
“I don’t know,” Maris wailed, fresh tears springing to her eyes, “Can’t I change my mind?” she wept.
Adam looked at Manchester sharply and folded his arms expectantly.
Dr Manchester shook his head and shrugged. “You know that you can’t; besides I see now that that is for the best.”
“I will take good care of her and I will serve her well,” Adam said confidently. “That is my primary purpose.”
“Are your methods too part of your primary purpose?” Manchester chuckled.
“My methods…? I haven’t done anything inappropriate, indeed I am incapable of doing so,” Adam said indignantly.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Manchester snorted, “And about time too. As I said when you’re done with her Maris and I will be having a little talk of our own.”
“Oh uncle you haven’t… not since I was in college…” Maris blurted, mortified by even that admission.
“Then it is about time,” her uncle growled. “Oh and Adam, don’t be so sure you are infallible. You are one of us now. In a year it will be difficult to tell you apart from a natural.”
Adam nodded thoughtfully and then excused himself. It was time to read the project spec for Maris’s next job. But as he crossed the room he paused. “Dr Manchester, I will keep her facing the wall for an hour to consider her behaviour. Then I will dismiss her and send her to you for your little ‘talk.’”
Maris gave a horrified gape and whirled on her uncle to protest.
“Don’t you dare,” he growled, “You have caused me enough trouble today. I’ll deal with you later.”
Filed under: DJB stories, M/F, sci-fi, spanking stories | 4 Comments
Tags: corner time, OTK, spanking
There are two people, each with a back story, often both troubled, her with some major character flaws that are childish (lack of self control, no sense of self preservation, an inability to think though consequences) but not overwhelming. She does not, for example, have a vile temper that frays at the most imperceptible of provocations; or as my favourite line from Gabriel Garcia Marquez go, “flatulence that could kill flowers.”
His flaws are the loneliness of the long time repressed male, and slightly too much rugged sexuality for any reasonable girl to be able to resist. He is over big, over powerful and the kind of controlling that would normally necessitate a short term stay in a mental facility.
They meet, and theirs is an unrequited or unrecognised passion. She expresses her flaws; he saves her from herself and spanks her. This pattern is repeated with occasion acknowledgments of his intense isolation and the burdens of responsibility until the author has completed the word count and a portrait is painted of a blissful, sore bottomed future.
Do I mock these tales? I do not.
I have sought them out and devoured them for as long as I can remember. They are burned in my brain, scenes selected at will for my own personal perusal when I need inspiration (not for writing, you understand.)
But I thought it worth mentioning that none of it is quite like that. I would like it to be.
This is what it is like.
They meet. They talk, laugh and circle each other warily.
Between them they have enough character flaws to people a small colony but no flaw too dangerous or burdensome. They work hard and do things like the washing up and read work emails that make them sigh and say, “No, nothing” in a vague sense of irritation when the other asks if anything is wrong.
They leave piles of clothes in the other’s house. They engage in spankings that are tremendous and sometimes too short because they can’t remember when the supermarket is coming to deliver or because they promised to meet friends in the pub.
They share their little histories. They share them in asides, short stories over coffee; tales of “When I went to France”; snippy explanations of why they don’t like the tea things set out like that; and then the other kind. The kind in the dark when skin to skin they explain how they really got here, their genuine journey, the one they tell only a few times in their lives.
In the stories this comes out after a car accident, or the barn burning down or when he arrives home to see a police car parked outside. He goes pale with fear, sorts out whatever the incident was and after checking her safety, he spanks her with such thoroughness that any number of clichés might be true. She cries. They understand each other. The past hurt is resolved, understood, a line is drawn under it and they make love.
How beautiful. How magical. How completing of oneself.
I have waited, me, the reader of spanking fiction for this moment. I have used words like, “yearn” and “finally understood.”
This is what I know. When you finally let him in, after spankings, shared meals, at least one minor illness, several arguments, some late working nights, some serious discussions of how one tidies a kitchen and the other rituals of getting to know someone, then there is the moment.
There is seldom an exciting prelude, just some time and a feeling of trust and it happens. You tell him all the rest, well not all of it, but the real truth, the personal account, the heart truth. And, if you have found a hero of spanking reality he does not take you over his knee and spank you until the pain goes away. He does not make a speech about how all the pain is over now. He does not withdraw and find his way back on a stormy night days later.
He listens. He hears how you hurt. He cries with you; big, strong, manly tears because he feels it with you.
But later, later when you squabble about the dishwasher or leaving towels on the bed he spanks you; a hard little spanking, and he squeezes you extra tight afterwards.
That’s how it really is, just so you know.
Filed under: Indigo Sigh | 9 Comments
First can I say thanks to everyone who delurked or otherwise commented last week for LOL (two days). I remember the first ever comment some six years ago now and my first LOL Day when I realised that someone out there had noticed.
Once upon a time I used to run a post announcing the passing of this numerical landmark or that. Believe it or not I even had a post about my 10,000th visitor. It wasn’t long before I would get that in less than a week and now this is often a daily event. So a big thank you to everyone. Incidentally, sometime around teatime (GMT) A Voice in the Corner will (probably) get its 15th million visitor.
In the last six and a bit years I have written several million words, mostly fiction and have gone from knowing no one to marrying a girl I met in this world.
Now on to this last week. I am often inspired by current events when writing but I almost never comment on them directly. It is fortunate then that my recent stories and the one scheduled for tomorrow have no bearing on the real world and are entirely about escapism.
Last week I revisited Steampunk, the wild west and tomorrow is a sci-fi short. I hope to include another before the end of the week. I know I have many lose ends to pick-up: I have had request for Ad Astra and Angela as well as concluding the Sinclair Method. I won’t comment except to say I haven’t forgotten.
Abraham Heights is ongoing (fortunately it is a soap so there is no end point as such) and I have a draft for Severus and yet another epic (which I really should not have started but that damn muse is a beach).
Filed under: web round-up, Weekly Round-up | 4 Comments
Tags: spanking, spanking blogs
An art theme to this week’s selection. I am assuming the last one is faked, but rather well done I thought.
Filed under: art, history, vintage | 4 Comments
Tags: 1880s, 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, bikers and spanking
Audrey Chancellor swung the horse around and pointed it at the high ridge that now stood in front of her. The High Country was no place for anyone, never you mind a lone woman. But the law was the law.
Audrey took a deep breath and blew a stray strand of red hair from under her wide-brimmed hat. If only Pa hadn’t taken a bullet, she thought. If only Jake and Thomas hadn’t had to take that prisoner to Hemingway. But ‘if only’ was only wishing and “if wishes were fishes then we would all have a good supper.” Her grandmother’s words rang through her brain.
Sure she was a full sworn deputy, Pa had seen to that. All the Chancellors were in law enforcement out here on the frontier. But she knew darn well that Pa and Jake only meant for her to keep gaol and do the paperwork. When Jake got back from Hemingway he was sure gonna wale the tar out of her for lighting out alone after that darn Indian.
Audrey straightened her hat and let go with another heavy sigh. It wasn’t too late to turn back. After all, the Indian had only winged P and her father had only gone after him in the first place because the mayor had said that no redskin could come to town.
She patted her ample right hip for her six-gun and then checked the Winchester in the saddle holster. She chewed her lip and then set her mouth sideways in consternation as she weighed up the options.
If she turned back now her elder cousin Jake would most likely still find out she had gone after the Indian. That meant a leathering in an empty cell or being sent out back to cut a switch for a trip to the woodshed. Previous variations played out in her head and none of them left her sitting any time soon.
If she headed up to the High Country most likely she wouldn’t catch-up with the Indian anyways, but at least she would have tried. It meant a spanking if she went and a spanking if she didn’t. She shrugged. The fact that she was over 21 would cut no ice with Jake and nor should it, she thought ruefully. If she had a spanking coming then she had a spanking coming, there was no sense in bitching about it.
So why wait? Was she afraid? Darn straight and not only of Jake. But Pa always said that don’t let off doing anything just because you’re scared. Nevertheless, the High Country was no place for anyone, especially a woman alone, she reminded herself. Audrey sucked in a breath and then kicked the horse forward and up the slope.
Cody Walking-Bear McKenzie sucked on a sprig of grass thoughtfully as he watched the rider come on. He hadn’t hurt the sheriff badly, but there was no way he was siting a horse this day and for a week or two to come. So the pursuer must either be a deputy or an outrider scout for a posse.
Deep-tanned and broad, Cody stood six-six in his moccasins and the firm dark eyes weighed up the opposition.
The rider was small, so maybe a scout. But Cody’s instinct said no. A posse would take another day to gather and he doubted they would bother unless the sheriff was dead. That pointed to a deputy trying to pick up a trail.
Cody could duck out easily but if the deputy was stubborn he might get lost and end up dying out here. That would be on Cody then and the law would not fast forgive. It would be best to jump the fool and slap him down a little before taking his guns and pointing him to the trail home.
Audrey saw the tracks and frowned. She knew darn well it had been intended that she see them and that meant a trap. Instinctively she reached for the Winchester, the weapon she was most proficient in and then thought better of it. A trap meant her quarry was close to. Instead of the rifle she palmed the pistol in its holster and dismounted.
Maybe the Indian was watching her already. Maybe he would just shoot her. Her tummy tightened and she felt sick. I should turn back, she thought, her eyes danced rapidly as she scanned the rocks. I really should turn back.
“Sister, don’t move,” a dark accented voice called out from behind her.
Cody had spotted that his pursuer was a girl an hour back. The revelation had left him a quandary, but it was now even more certain that he shouldn’t let this woman go any deeper into the High Country alone.
“I have come to take you in for shooting my Pa,” Audrey yelled back. But she didn’t move and allowed her grip on the handle of her six-gun to loosen and let go.
“Your Pa went for his gun first, there was no call,” Cody responded. “I would have left town. I know where I am not wanted.”
“That’s as maybe but…” Audrey worked her mouth. She was alone out here and she knew nothing about this man.
He had a point though. Her Pa never would have been so hasty if it hadn’t had been for the mayor. Where was the harm in being an Indian anyway? Only her Pa called them Breeds and look of disgust came over his face when he said it.
Jake always handled it better. He was polite and let the few Indians who braved town trade a little before moving them on. “Cash on the nail is cash on the nail,” he would say.
“Unhitch your belt real slow lady and kick your pistol away,” Cody told her.
The girl looked out of place, even out here. For one thing she wore pants like a man. Well not exactly like a man, she filled them out just fine.
Audrey was about to obey when old bones crackled at her feet. It sounded like grit and death rolled up in a tin can and she startled as she whirled around. By the time her pistol cleared the holster Cody was in view, his rifle blasting off a shot in his hands. He was big and mean-looking. Without thinking she fired too.
The Indian fell hard and backwards with a sickening crunch. It was only after he tumbled over the rocks that Audrey saw the rattler on the ground. What was left of it anyway.
“Bitching hell,” she gasped, falling back on the worse cuss words she knew or pretended to know at any rate. “Hey Indian…? Mister? Are you alright?”
Audrey crept forward at a stoop to where she had last seen him, her pistol lamely waving in the same direction as if another rattlesnake would leap out at her at any moment.
“You going to shoot me again?” the man growled as he clambered to his feet.
A well-blanched Audrey shook her head vigorously and holstered her gun.
“Sorry,” she winced, “You alright?”
“Probably,” Cody admitted as he dusted himself off.
“You saved my life,” Audrey said sheepishly.
“And you nearly killed me for it,” Cody said angrily.
“I reckon,” Audrey groaned.
“Why I ought to… I ought to spank the living…” Cody snarled.
Audrey laughed nervously. “I guess if you did then I’d have a red skin too.”
Cody stared at her in disbelief and narrowed his eyes. “Is that a joke?”
“No Sir I… I mean I…” she knew the man’s look, it wasn’t so very different to Jake’s or her Pa’s in such circumstances.
“You really gonna spank me?” Audrey asked nervously, her teeth devouring her lower lip.
Cody was surprised at the change in the girl’s demeanour and folded his arms as he weighed the situation up.
When the man didn’t answer Audrey dropped her gaze and began t unhitch her gun belt. The band hitching up her pants came next and to Cody’s surprised she began doing a shimmy and shucking down her denims.
“I guess I got it coming,” she said ruefully.
Cody was not only surprised by this turn of events, he was shocked to see that the girl wore nothing under her pants.
“I guess you do,” Cody agreed as he took the initiative.
“I am only letting you do this because you saved my life,” Audrey said ruefully, “That, and I think you got a tough break back in town.”
“And the fact that I shot your Pa…?” Cody asked incredulously as she snuggled down across his lap.
“Oh, that was nothing, you only winged him,” Audrey scoffed, “He’s been shot plenty of times afore. He’ll be back in the saddle by Tuesday.”
Cody pinned her hands into the small of her back and adjusted his thigh so that her bare bottom curved upwards rather more. She was beautiful she decided, but obviously crazy.
“I wasn’t going to shoot you,” Audrey admitted meekly, “I mean I never shot anyone and confronting you up here and almost killing you and all… well I guess it learned me that I should have stuck to the gaol like Pa and Jake told me. I am so gonna get it.”
“Worse than this?” Cody asked as hand slapped down hard across bare flesh.
Audrey squealed as if she meant it and for a few long seconds she bucked up and down obscenely as she squirmed. “Much worse,” she finally replied breathily.
“That remains to be seen,” Cody growled, put out that his own prowess was being compared unfavourably with this Jake.
The Indian’s great arm swung down like a paddle and it came down fast and hard. In moments Audrey was not only the reddest bottomed girl in the territory but could have won state medals for bawling.
“Jiminy,” she piped up, “You sure do spank hard.” She was panting like a girl in a race now and she was suddenly very eager to reach the finish line.
However, despite Cody’s pace and energy, he was a conducting a marathon not a sprint and they were only just getting started.
“Whoo-hoo, I’m sorry,” Audrey wailed heedless of any dignity.
“You sure are,” Cody chuckled as he set in to spank her for a good portion of the afternoon.
Sobbing hard, Audrey had steadied herself on all fours for a good 15 minutes. Her behind was as hot as pipe-stove coals and twice as bright. That had been some spanking, she thought ruefully as she calmed herself down. She had totally forgotten that she was showing the Indian her bare bottom. But at least he was handsome and if a girl was going to get a spanking it might as well be by an expert.
“I guess I’ll be going now,” Cody said with a very great reluctance.
Audrey sniffed and nodded, she was too shy to look up and meet his eyes.
“No hard feelings?” Cody asked as he swung himself into the palomino that had seemingly come from nowhere.
“No Sir,” Audrey winced as she at last began to rise to haul up her pants. “Getting a spanking is an occupational hazard for a girl in this territory,” she added ruefully.
Cody nodded and wheeling his horse he quite literally rode off into the sunset.
The Indian spanked her good, Audrey admitted, but after braving the High Country and getting captured she now faced Jake. That meant the belt and a switching, she reckoned. She only prayed that corner time wouldn’t be in the gaol house where she could be seen. But she wasn’t hopeful, she wasn’t hopeful at all.
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