Just A Spanking: Tales of Dominance and Submission (12 page)

"Remember what we told you about coming," I said, and then slapped him, hard. The marks of my five fingers burned red on his flesh.

"Ow! That hurts!"

"That's the idea. Do you think it didn't hurt, for Lucia and for me to discover your underhandedness and dishonesty?" I slapped him again, on the other cheek, then back to the first one, building up my pace. I was glad that I work out. I needed the stamina.

"Ouch! Argh! Oh please! Alex, please,
stop
!"

I aimed a stinging blow at the back of one of his thighs and
was
 
delighted
by the resulting rosy bloom. "I don't think so." I landed an open-handed slap on the matching thigh. "I'm having too much fun."

I was, too. My simmering anger subsided more and more with each contact of my palm with his punished flesh. As his buttocks warmed with my blows, my fury cooled.
But not my arousal.
I could see that his cock was still rampant, and I had some ideas about what to do about that. Meanwhile, I was acutely aware of Lucia's eyes on me. I ventured a glance in her direction, between blows. Her lips were parted with excitement. Her eyes gleamed. Suddenly, I couldn't bear to have my clothes on.

"Lucia," I said, somewhat breathless. "Why don't you take over?
 
I need to make myself more comfortable." Roughly, I pulled my blouse off and began unzipping my jeans.

"Delighted," she said. She stood in front of Michael, thighs spread wide. I knew she was bare underneath her brief skirt. From half a room away I could smell the aroma of her sex; I knew that Michael would be drowning in it.

"What do you say, Mike? Should I spank you for a while?"

He just looked at her, his sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes.
Helpless with lust.
I knew exactly how he felt.

She strutted off into the kitchen area on her spike heels. Michael and I both followed her every movement with our eyes. She returned with a wooden spoon, which she showed to our shackled lover. His eyes widened with fear.

"No, Lucia, please!
I can't take it!"

"Of course you can, Mike. You're a big, strong man.
Strong enough to satisfy two women, right?"

"But I'm already so sore..."

"Sorry, but I really don't want to wreck my fingernails..."

I watched with fascination as Lucia began to use the spoon to belabor poor Michael's crimson buttocks. He yelled and twisted, trying to get away from her blows, but to no avail.

"Hush, Mike, more quietly please. We don't want the neighbors calling the police about some domestic dispute."
 
However, she dropped the spoon and began to spank him with her open palms, first one hand,
then
the other.

My clothes scattered on the floor, I sat on the couch and watched the tableau unfold. Lucia was magnificent. Michael was reduced to whimpering and twitching feebly with each slap.

My fingers crept into the hungry cleft between my thighs. My sex was a raging furnace.

It seemed to go on a long while, but sexual arousal does distort time. I should mention that Michael was still hugely tumescent. Finally, Lucia stopped.

"I think that's enough.
For now."
She glanced over to where I lay on the couch, legs splayed,
both
hands busy in my cunt. A smile dawned on her dark features like a tropical sunrise.

"However, I have an idea for another, gentler punishment." She rotated the bar stool so that Michael could see me on the couch.

"See what you're missing, Mike? You know, you really don't give us the appreciation we deserve." Slithering down next to me, she kissed me long and deeply. My heart leaped; I wasn't going to scare her
away, that
was for sure.

She scooped her breasts out of the cups of the bustier and fed me her ripe nipples, one at a time. I trailed my tongue down her neck, marveling at her silky skin, wallowing in her perfume. Soon she was as naked as I was, and all was fingers, tongues, musk and salt. Soon time stopped.

After a long while, I raised my head from Lucia's delightfully curly bush to look over at Michael. I'll give him credit. His swollen cock looked purple and painful, but he hadn't come. His eyes silently pleaded with me.

"Maybe we'll let you loose soon, Michael," I called to him. "We don't really need you, but a hard cock might turn out to have its uses." He brightened visibly and I gave him a grin. "Meanwhile, I really must compliment you on your excellent taste in women." I buried my face back in Lucia's sweet cunt.

Yes, I could well imagine it, now that Michael knew his place. Lucia, Michael and me
, spending
some pleasant time together.
Some nice quiet evenings at home.

Limbo

We make our choices, often blindly. Then we live with the consequences.

It's your fiftieth
birthday,
I'm half a world away, and married to someone else. I honestly don't know which
is the bigger obstacle
. No, scratch that. If today's experiment is successful, the distance will mean nothing.

I want to help you celebrate.
To give you something special.
Romantic and cynic that you are, I want to prove to you my enduring devotion, across time and space. I want to give back to you some of the magic you've shared with me.

I climb out of the taxi at the entrance to a lane too narrow for the compact Toyota to navigate, hand the driver a hundred baht and head toward my destination on foot. I'm somewhere in the maze of venerable lanes between Chinatown and the river. I smell star anise and decaying fish. I pass racks of drying laundry and bins of preserved fruit.

The address you emailed me belongs to a surprisingly grand, if somewhat decrepit, building, three stories of balconies and shutters. No sign. When I ring the bell, I am ushered into the waiting room by a powdered and rouged crone wearing too-tight silk and ropes of jade beads. She gestures for me to sit on the velvet banquette and shuffles away. The walls are mirrors, framed by faded brocade draperies. I can't help grinning to myself. Clearly, this state-of-the-art Monroe parlor used to be a brothel.

This was my idea, but you did all the research. I know that you're somewhere in the basement of a fancy hotel in San Francisco.
Very exclusive, top security.
For executives who want the ultimate in teleconferencing
...

The madame returns with a sheaf of papers. Release forms. Of course it's all illegal anyway, but no one wants to take any chances. There are documented cases of people going astral and never returning. The parlor doesn't want to be stuck with my still breathing but non-sentient body.

Listing my husband as next of kin, I feel a sharp pang of guilt. This is stolen time, like all my time with you. He thinks that I'm at the gym. I push away my qualms and regrets. You're worth the risk. You deserve it.

The Monroe process is expensive, too, at least partially because it's proscribed, but I've saved up the royalties from my writing. I'm paying for your processing as well, part of my birthday gift. The madame counts the wad of crisp thousand baht notes twice,
then
stuffs them into a purse at her waist. I follow her down a musty hallway and into the chamber.

The contrast is startling, bare white walls and gleaming stainless steel under the coldest of fluorescent bulbs. The two white-coated technicians, one male and one female, are as young and healthy as the proprietor is aged. There's a hint of jasmine in the air, and under that, a residue of disinfectant.

"Take off your clothes, please," says the woman. Her gleaming black hair is tightly bound into a chignon at the back of her neck. Seeing my hesitation, she nods to her companion, and he disappears into what must be the control room. She drapes the table in the middle of the room with a sheet and indicates that I should lie down. As I do so, I have the sense that I am already going under, submitting myself to your will.

That sense grows stronger as she fastens my wrists and ankles to the table with rubber restraints. There's a familiar tingle between my legs, which intensifies as she attaches electrodes to my calves, inner thighs, forearms, throat and solar plexus. She is impersonal, but still her touch arouses me, being in some sense an extension of yours.

Are the electrodes monitors or stimulators? I don't know, and I don't really want to. You've studied the process thoroughly, I'm sure, and could tell me every detail, but I would rather pretend that it's magic instead of science.

Though the fact is, no one exactly understands yet why a combination of drugs and neuroelectrical stimulation can liberate the mind (or spirit or whatever) from the confines of the body. When Robert Monroe published his classic book on astral journeys, people tried to replicate his findings. Some claimed to have done so, but only through lengthy study and the practiced cultivation of altered states of consciousness.

In the instant culture of the twenty-first century, few were willing to make this kind of effort. It was only half a dozen years ago that a former student of Monroe's, a Chinese physician, discovered how to deliver journeys out of the body to anyone, on demand. His sensational results were immediately suppressed, but not, of course, successfully. Now there were Monroe parlors operating illicitly in every country, even in plague-torn Africa. This one in Bangkok was probably safer than most.

She gathers my hair into a net. There's a low buzzing noise. "Raise your head," she instructs me. When I do, she deftly shaves symmetrical patches on my temporal lobes. Then she dabs on some adhesive and positions the primary stimulators on the newly-bared skin.

There's a swift jab of pain as an IV needle enters my arm. I welcome it, imagining you are experiencing the same mixture of excitement and dread. I wonder if my cunt juices are seeping into the sheet. I can feel chill metal through the thin cotton. A delicious shudder runs up my spine, then a rush of warmth as the drugs trickle into my bloodstream.

I'm slightly groggy already. The technician's impassive Asian face hovers over me. There's a mask in her hand. "Are you ready?"

I nod.

"Focus on where you want to go. Breathe deeply."
 
She
fastens
 
the
mask over my nose and mouth and I have a moment of panic. Then I remember you.
Breathe
. I take a sweet-tasting gulp into my lungs, and the room spins dizzily around me. Blackness begins to descend. "No," I want to cry out, "I can't! I've changed my mind..." But it is too late, and anyway, there's
a
ember of certainty burning through the hysteria. You're there, I know.
Waiting for me.

Utter darkness.
A sensation of movement, as though I were racing furiously through space.
No sound though, no air rushing past my face.
In fact, no sensations of my body at all.
It's peculiar, but somehow not frightening.

All at once, I'm still, suspended, immersed in velvet blackness.
Alone.
I wait there in limbo, trusting you as I always have.

When you arrive, I know immediately. Before the light begins to build, before the brush of your fingertips against my arm, before your whisper of my name, I feel your presence. Joy floods through me. It worked. We're together, closer perhaps than we've ever been.

"Sarah," you whisper again, and I marvel that I can hear without ears, feel without skin. You are holding me close. I want nothing. All my desires fulfilled in this single moment. Tears prickle under my closed eyelids. "Happy Birthday, baby," I murmur in your ear.
"Happy, happy, happy."

You chuckle, your voice low and seductive. "Open your eyes, little one."

What eyes?
I wonder, but now I do have some sense of a body. When I obey and look around, there's a delightful shock of recognition. The polished oak floor and the oriental carpet, washed with moonlight from the bay windows.
The ebony four-poster bed, complete with the silken cords.
The marble pillars framing the arched doorway. I can clearly see the iron rings embedded in the marble, half a dozen feet above the ground.