Writer’s Block

06Jan16

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Half an hour ago she had abandoned her lap top for paper and ink. The paper was cream, rich as buttermilk, slightly imperfect so that her pen rose and fell as she made marks across the page. They were just marks though, swirls and curls in her purple ink, not a single word was formed by her nib.

She sighed, laid her pen down and watched it roll lazily across her desk. She eyed her lap top, closed and resting after she had tussled with it all morning. Her eyes shut as she searched for the emotion that was creeping up on her.

1i 5Was it rage? It felt a little like it, certainly she had the raised heartbeat and the closing in feeling in her head. Was it fear? There was some of that also, verging on panic. Something else too, frustration? Something linked with failure, something to do with having to do something she could not do, obligation that weighed heavy as the pen she had let drop from her hand.

She did not know what she felt. Bloody irony of that. She was supposed to be writing, supposed to be able to describe a character and what the character felt, supposed to make someone exist on her page to greet the deadline that was fast approaching but not one word could be found.

She had no character. She had no scene. She had no core of an idea. She had no inspiration, no hope of inspiration, not a name, not a word, not a bloody hope of meeting her deadline.

“Shit.”

She proclaimed out loud. That helped a little. It was a word. Not written, not useful but helpful.

The door clicked open. She watched the curved brass handle lower and knew that he was about to breeze in. Her internal check told her that rage was definitely one on the emotions she felt.

“Are you doing the essay you owe me?”

The question came as he ambled over, all relaxation and smoothness to kiss her lightly on the top of her head.

“No,” her response was righteous and powerful, for once this morning action was easy. “I am not doing your bloody essay because I don’t have the time and I can’t believe you would be so selfish as to ask that. I have to write something for tomorrow and only you could be so annoying and bloody self centred as to ask that.”

He stood back one pace and looked down at her as she glared at him. His hand twitched as he resisted the urge to rub her hair. Allowing himself an internal smile he turned around and offered a cheery, “OK then, let me know if you need a hand.” as he left her to her work.

Bastard.  Utter ruddy bastard. Her lips pursed together in a tight circle and she breathed deeply. Stupid. Feckless. Selfish. Pathetic. Fucking. Ruddy. Bastard.

She shoved her note pad onto the floor noticing with a victor’s eye as the pen splashed a purple tear onto the carpet and marched after him.

It was easy to catch him up as he was standing in front of the book case choosing his next book to read. Him with his free time. Him with his bloody superior attitude and sense of being so bloody perfect.

She walked up to him and shoved him in the chest.

“Don’t you get a little sick of being so bloody supercilious?” She was not entirely sure what that meant but it struck the right tone. There was no way he would get Toppy with her now.

“I am so pissed off with you telling me what to do with no thought whatsoever of how much work I have to do, how much pressure I am under. You are so inconsiderate and high handed and I won’t have it any more.”

She spat out these words, not quite a shout but loud enough so that when she finished it surprised them both to hear the birds still singing outside.  Her fists were tight, and she threw her eyes at him in a declaration of war.

He turned slowly and faced her. One eyebrow raised very gently and then his eyes opened wide in the silent question, ‘Have you quite finished?’

“Oh, no,” she countered, “Don’t you even try to come over all in charge about this. You have no bloody idea…” and her words turned to a shriek of temper as he grabbed her arm and walked her the four steps to the back of the sofa over the back of which she was thrown.

“Arrrggh, get the bloody hell off me.” And she threw her arms forward to push herself off but she was so imbalanced, legs dangling over the back and head on the cushion that there was no way back up.  “Seriously,” her voice now a little muffled by the leather of the sofa, “this is not the time … no, get OFF.”

Now she could feel him throw her skirt up with landed light as a butterfly on her neck  and tickled her ears and turn her knickers back. The angle with which her body was pressing on the sofa meant they could only go down as far as the curve under her bottom which for some reason made her even more angry still. He couldn’t even spank her properly.

“Get off me. I mean it. Get off me now!” she kicked out as hard as she could and one corner of her foot struck him but did with no decent impact. “I … mean … it!” she yelled again, still kicking as hard as she could and still with no satisfactory result.

That was when he struck first, his hand hard on her bottom, a sound loud enough to shock her into silence for a moment. Then the pain arrived and with it her emphatic protests.

He covered her bottom and thighs with dreadfully hard spanks, each one a burning pain that made her pale skin red. At first her rage defended her, letting her ride the ignoble pain and come out still shooting.

“Get … the … bloody… hell … off … me.” Each of her yells was punctuated by his hand landing hard on her naked skin. “I mean it.” But still the slaps continued and her tantrum started to tire and choke.

Her demands started to become pleas as the dreadful assault continued. Her bottom was now bright red, she could feel it and every time he landed again he made it even hotter.

“Please stop. I am sorrrrrrryyyyyy” came at last as he was starting all over again on her thighs, right on the inside as she kicked her legs. Seven hard spanks followed up and down her bottom in the abject silence of the room.

“Are you sorry?” It was the first thing he had said since he came to her in the dining room.

It took a full minute for the sulky reply to come.

“Yes. You have to stop spanking me now.”

They waited for his response. Instead of his words she heard a familiar stroke of leather through denim loops and so she tried in vain to push herself off the sofa. “No, I said I was sorry.”

He slowly and deliberately folded over his belt and putting one hand on her struggling back informed her, “You did. And now I want to hear you mean it.”

She’d hoped that the warm up he gave her would have made this next seeing to easier but not a bit of it. He laid his belt across her swollen cheeks with a force that made her gasp at first and then make wordless cries as he continued.

Neither of them counted. She struggled at first, finding the strokes worst across her tender thighs and then worst again over her bottom that now hurt so much she could not bear it. She knew she couldn’t.  All she could feel was that burn of the belt as it strode across her and how impossible it was to avoid.

She was so grateful when he stopped she could have kissed him. She stayed still as a mouse before a cat waiting for his pronouncement.

“Are you sorry?” his question was deceptively simple and they both knew it.

“Yes.” she said, returning in kind.

He listened to her back through his hand, feeling her breathing deep and light all at once, the adrenaline that had been there ten minutes before replaced by some unexpected peace despite her ordeal. Her bottom, a testament to what he had put her through was marked and sore but still as were her legs, dangling uselessly behind her.

“Up.” He commented as he lifted her away from her leather punishment block and pulled her close into him. Just for a moment he held her so deep in his arms that the heat behind her warmed them both.

Then he walked her back to the table where she had sat minutes before. She stood while he picked up the pad and the pen looking back to her when he saw the stain on the floor. She bit her lip and blushed knowing they would discuss that later. He put the lid back on the fountain pen and placed her lap top on the oak table.

“Sit,” he commanded, “write.”

Wincing as she sat she did as he said.

She began.

‘Half an hour ago she had abandoned her lap top for paper and ink.’

wr1 rosiewants1



6 Responses to “Writer’s Block”

  1. I’ll have to try this tactic the next time I get writer’s block. Good story

  2. 3 MrJ

    QED.

  3. 4 George

    It’s a pleasure to lend a hand to deserving young ladies!

  4. Nothing like that sense of righteousness to get a girl spanked, eh? ☺

    Ash


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