Not a story... a vignette perhaps.



"Lose the blouse!"

He flicks at it with his finger, as she fumbles with the buttons, which suddenly seem to have become impossibly awkward.

Once it's undone he pushes her hand aside, opens it up and slowly pulls down the lacy bra cups until at last her breasts, straining at their ever diminishing restraint, pop free. He smiles as she blushes at this minor indignity.

"Now undo your skirt."

More blushes as she undoes the button and loosens the zip, so it hangs loosely, precariously, on her hips. She feels the kick of her own chemistry - the lurch of her stomach and the quickening pace of heart and breath.

As his hand clamps on her wrist and pulls her toward him her legs give a little adrenaline kick so she skits, tethered like a nervous foal, appearing momentarily more as a struggling toddler than a grown woman. She could gather a shred of dignity by stepping forward boldly, but something compels her to hang back, to end up being dragged over like a recalcitrant child.

He looks at her, but she looks down, away, anywhere else. To look back would be an admission, an acknowledgement of her position, that she's standing there, held, with no choice but to wait and take what's coming to her, when he's ready to give it.

She's still twitching inside: she wants to cross her legs, to pull, yell, stamp and squeal. But grown women don't do that. They stand and wait...and wait....until at last she finally returns his gaze, colouring up to the tips of her ears at her own mute acceptance of it all.

His half smile doesn't help. Not a smile to share: not a seducer's smile to entice nor an lover's invitation to join him in a secret amusement. This is a smile that says 'I see your shame, taste it: it amuses me...'

Only when he has her eye does she feel his hand move up her her back. Strong, slightly rough fingers moving under the disarray of her blouse and into the waistband of her skirts. She sees his full tight smile even as she feels her skirt and pants pulled down to her knees in one sharp wrench. The fabric faintly tickles the back of her legs as they slide ungracefully down the rest of the way to the floor.

He pulls her round to face him. Bare below the navel: pale skin, feeling the sudden coolness of a passing draught; dark coarse hair. An irrelevance, unbidden pops into her mind.. it too untidy...straggly? She flushes again and a prickle of sweat breaks out on her skin. How can she be so hot but shivering, so dry in the mouth and damp in the body?

She stumbles out of the tangled discarded clothing as he pulls her closer. He can feel the heat radiating off her as he transfers the grip on her wrist to his left hand and draws her in. She bumps up against his left leg, unmoving as a trestle bar, and feels the scrape of heavy denim on her skin as his right leg hooks, trips, holds, secures.

With his arm around her waist and her leg pinioned she's powerless to resist as she's tipped unceremoniously upside down, but even as she shoots her right hand out to take control of her descent she finds that wrist held as well: She's going down under *his control.

A momentary dextrous re-organisation later and she's been put in her position, arranged, ordered: tipped over, dangling head down, right leg locked into the crook of his, right arm pinioned against her back, her rear jutting unwillingly up: bare; displayed; waiting.

He pauses...lets her appreciate the undignified state she's in. She's only too aware of it, unable to move, yet still swaying precariously, barely able to touch the floor with her free hand: her clothing of one shoe and her open blouse covering only her shoulders serving merely to highlight her nakedness, the empty bra cups brushing mockingly against her swaying breasts.

The first slap comes as a shock and she yells, twists, unable to jump, as she feels every callous on his hand imprinted into her rear. Then there's a surreal silence as she grits her teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her squeal, so an onlooker might as well be observing a silent film with just a handclap for accompaniment. Slow, steady, inexorable....

Her stomach gives that little lurch again, and not just from the driving thud of her pelvis into the solidity of his supporting leg. Her left hand is off the floor and waving spasmodically in a feeble gesture that says 'look at me..I'm being spanked....I'm helpless..'

She can feel her breasts jiggling about foolishly with each slap, her face is burning and her eyes prickling with tears under the disarray of her hair tumbling out of any order...

Her muffled sob is a signal, a trip released, and the slaps suddenly come faster..from a metronomic drip to a sudden deluge. She's bouncing about over his knee, hair flying, sobbing and yelling, her left leg flailing impotently, struggling against his grip.

"Quiet down!"

She feels a stinging slap against her thigh, and again, as her legs are slapped into settling down a semblance of order. She has an awful hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach: it's the realisation that although has enough - more in fact, than she might play at, she's being obliged to settle herself to accept more: to take whatever he thinks she is due.

Then it continues. Her already sore flesh stings and aches, each fresh slap sending a prickle of shocks through her. And it spreads....from her the tops of her thighs, and onwards, engulfing her as if she'd slipped on a pair of fiery shorts.

Instead of kicking, her left leg is thrust out, en pointe, unnaturally rigid, except for the muscle-spasm twitches, almost as if it's trying to get away all by itself. It's the last vestige of her self control, reflecting her inner tension as she attempts to build a mental armour, to endure, to hold out and say to herself 'I survived it..', even as she stifles the sobs and feels the tears dripping.

But as it's a prop to her, so it signals her resistance to him, with each jerking twitch telegraphing how close is the final collapse.

Tears..real tears..welling up in uncontrolled sobs...she slumps limply, emotionally naked at last, accepting whatever remains to be meted out until it's done.
And when it is done he stands her before him, and she thanks him. She is his Eve, and he knows her.


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