Gavotte

By Brewt.Blacklist

December 2014

Written in deference to the wisdoms of British Parliament

SHE COULD tell; tonight would be one of the nights. One of the nights he would cross the bed. Now, he would not cross the bed to put his arms around her and hold her and try to make her feel safe, nor to kiss her and remind her of his adoration of her—but he would, instead, lay on top of her, and call upon her to perform her wifely duty to him. He would beckon her to execute the responsibility of a woman to her bridegroom that her mother had tried to bring up while they waited in the narthex before she went down the aisle on that fateful day that she left her childhood home to take on the role she had prepared for her entire life. The appeal to her to submit to the head of her household’s will as the apostle dictated would come about tonight, with the expectation that she could so easily do something that was surprisingly simple to perform, such that an objection to this plan would be unheard of. All she had to do was lay there, and not interfere with what he was trying to do. If she could find a way to be pleasant about it, so much the better.

The devoir would happen as it so regularly would, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Oh, they tried a time or two, and found they had nothing to say. It was what it was, and it would happen when it would. It was never referred to in any kind of polite conversation—along with politics, money and religion—and if a depiction of it should ever cross their path for whatever reason, they would both turn their heads away and ignore it without remark. It was unspecified and undefined, and not dwelled upon, even in their own privacies to themselves, let alone, god forbid, each other. Or anyone else, for that matter. It was the unspoken right everyone had understood she was pledging to him before all other men when they marched away from the front of the sanctuary, in full regalia, surrounded by flowers and fugues and families and friends. It was the silent secret of marriage.

But none of the conventions of avoidance ever stopped the unmentionable from happening on his sense of timing. Which she could set the clocks by.

The way he wouldn’t look at her at certain moments during the dialogs at dinner invariably tipped his hand. She would catch him gazing into space dreaming whatever it was he dreamt of when he would call upon her obligation, and he would startle up to her with his eyes slightly wider than usual and his lips pursed, his breathing would stop, and she would know. She would convey her assent with a slight smile, and a tipping of her head down and to the right, averting her gaze from his, fluttering her eyelids a few times, followed by a slow roll of her eyes back up to him and a relaxing of her own facial muscles, with a final leisurely double-eyed wink. He would exhale his relief at her time-honored acceptance and look away with a slight nod, and she would lick her lips in a way that he wouldn’t see, and everything would be set. Normal discourse could again be broached, with concerns for health and the weather, all of which would wend its way back to the casual and mundane events of the day from both of their worlds for the rest of the meal. He would congratulate her on yet another fine culinary effort and excuse himself to the living room. She would finish the dishes as he fitfully read whatever it was he was reading these days, and at the end of a generally pleasant evening, she would pass him with a feathery trail of her fingertips across the back of his shoulders on her way to the bathroom to prepare herself.

She would take a quick shower and brush her hair and her teeth, and put on—only—a long flannel nightgown that was conducive to her commitment as well as a spray or two of that perfume he liked, and close the bathroom door with a distinct click when she was finished, to signify that she was ready. She would leave the curtains open for him to close, as a sign of respect for her privacy. She would be gazing at the ceiling, waiting in the bed for him to come in without the lights on, and, after fulfilling his mission of excluding the neighbors who couldn’t see in anyway, he would fumble around in the dark in his efforts to change into his bedclothes. She would close her eyes and turn her head away from his side of the bed, and listen to the sounds he made as she imagined him stripping entirely bare and standing there, naked in the dark, looking at her where she should be, building himself up into a prohibited rudeness, pulsing, audibly breathing through his open mouth, before redressing in his silks to crawl into bed with her. He bounced on the mattress as he climbed in beside her, and after all this time it finally struck her that his mood was that of a child, getting to do something he had been desperately wanting to do and had to wait such a long time for. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel him grinning as he settled into stillness beside her, and she smiled back in the dim. She would breathe deep once, and then longer and slower into a second time to kindle the joy she had surmised she should have for this commission, with the idea that, if nothing else, she would be giving something to him, something perhaps wonderful, and he would begin to cross over.

He would advance his column and kiss her once, and then a second time, longer and slower in what he had understood to be his responsibility to her in this transaction. He inched his way toward her, pulling the covers up and over them both to preserve their dignity, so that, in a pinch, they could roll away from each other as though nothing was happening, should one of the children once again find their way in without knocking, and want parental attentions for their own inevitable needs for assurances that there were indeed no monsters, and that it was just a dream, and yes, of course, you can sleep with mommy and daddy, which would thwart some scheduling, but not the intent, and they would pick up again where they left off on the following night. Even though the children had long ago left home to make their own ways out in the world, there was still some tradition and ritual to go through here.

She had taken to putting her hands underneath her back, right at the bottom of her ribcage, so that they would be pinned under her when he got to where he was laying on top of her. She could wiggle a little and imagine she was actually bound, tied up, being forced into this, and her lips would quiver at the thought. He wrestled around under the comforter and pulled the hem of her nightgown up to just high enough that he could lean over her, with their junctures in proximity to each other as they were at no other time, day or night, so he could get in there, between her legs, and she would spread her knees only just far enough that he could make his way.

She could feel him jerking around and worming his way and settling in, and, when his insolence would touch her there, there where he was trying to get into, it would always come as a surprise and almost a shock; she would freeze up and hold her breath. He would rock his hips forward and impel his way on and she would hold her ground and dent in where he urged and the pressure would build until something would give way within her. They would both gasp at the same instant; it was the closest they got to verbally communicating here. He would hold still and slump for a moment or two as the promises at the altar—of the two becoming one—would come to pass, before he would bulwark back up and commence on his intent. Her spine would lurch around as he moved, until the old familiar pattern would set in and she could finally relax and begin to breathe again, adjusting her own angles and letting go of her resistances so she could make it easier for him and wait it all out and not be a bother to what he was trying to do.

The motions he would make would be small, and it would all be over in a minute or two, and, during that dearest time, her mind would wander. She would imagine pirates or bandits or gangsters, all insisting on doing this very thing with her, er, to her, forcing her legs further apart than she ever had them for doing this sort of thing with her soulmate. A long line of men would parade through her bedroom, in complete silence, one after another, and, after a while, a forbidden word would pop into her head: a word that described the errant women that our lord and savior had such an affinity for spending his time with during his sojourn on earth, along with the tax collectors and sinners. A word she couldn’t even bring herself to pronounce out loud—not even when reading it in scripture—that she had always been guaranteed would be nothing but disgraceful and abhorrent for anyone to ever think of her to be, and so she did everything she could to be the exact opposite of that ignoble state during the day. But at night, when her dream lovers would press her into that…that oldest of professions, her breathing would change, and things would move inside her that were otherwise settled.

The men would begin to make murmuring sounds as they plunged their ways into her, and they would stand around the bed when they were done, displaying themselves and their arrogances toward her and whisper the prohibited word to describe her and what she was doing along with the course and low words for the act itself that were also outlawed. Words that positively burned her no matter when she heard them, either in reality or imaginations—not that they were ever used in her house. Their voices would get louder as more and more men spent time laying on top of her, finding their ways in between her legs, holding her down, taking liberties and molesting her in indecent ways, forcing their obscene tongues into her mouth, prodding her, doing to her what her own man was doing there where her children came from and more, so much more.

The armies that were parading through her bedroom would deride her, making promises to her that this was what she was good for, to lie with men and accept what men want to do to women, that she should perform this…this work with all men, not just the one man she had pledged some silly troth to above all others. The speeches would boom out that she should be so available to every man she knows, and even men she doesn’t know. The scoundrels and brutes would confirm to her that she had no say in it at all, and that she should surely be assured that they would force her to do this, long after her own strength and pride and character had so miserably failed. Her destiny was to lie here as Magdalene did, all day, every day, for all men everywhere: young, old, ugly, handsome, fat, thin, rich, poor, healthy, diseased, living, dying, the very upright and completely wretched of all races and colors; she was here to be filled with them all—boys, too, to show them how to be men—and that she was but a plaything for libertines and criminals to be used for this very act, and she had no rights to refuse anyone, ever.

On top of it all, they expected her to make them feel good about what they were doing to her. There was profit to be had from her enthusiasms.

For this is what she was: a woman, a receptacle of what men could force into her. They would take her, they would take her honor, and they would all know her. They would know as a man could know a woman, they would know her as a man could know a man, and she would know them all with her lips, and she would worship every last one of them with her very tongue finding its way into all who came to her where they were most foul, murmuring her delight at such debasement. And they would water her, too, and mock her as they relieved themselves of the rum and the beer and the wine they had been drinking all night long, showering her in her hair and on her face and all over her body and especially, especially, directly into her mouth, and she would be afforded no choice but to swallow, and to imbibe all manner of impurities with wonder and rapture, lest she incur wrath the likes of which she could never imagine.

Inevitably, women would come into the room, all armed with what men had between their legs, artificial contrivances so that they, too, could take her. They would bustle away the males of the species so they could be left alone to fill her with manufactured manhoods, and whatever else they could find that could even remotely mimic the pillars of men and the rutting motions such fools make when they can have their nasty and dirty ways with a woman. Fingers, hands, sticks, plungers, broomhandles, spoons, scissors, clubs, hammers, batons, staffs, maces, flails, stakes, knives, swords, guns, lit cigarettes and cigars, branding irons, all were produced and the princesses and dames punched all they could find into their victim to perform violence upon her there where god had blessed her with being a woman. The women were more aggressive than the men were, and they were vicious in their invasions, and spared her nothing. They would spit on her and slap her across the face as they drove their toys into her, scoffing at her petty indignant reactions, and they would pull back the covers and tear and rip at her nightgown until it was gone, as they continued to pummel her between her legs. They would lay their own womanhoods down upon her face, and pull on her hair and choke her and sneer at her as they would keep her from breathing until she renounced her vanities and her decency and gave them what they wanted, and adored the Daughters of Lilith with a reverence of kisses and lickings even unto their selfish feminine ecstasies. They stayed astride her, on long beyond the preliminary successes at their euphorias, until their own pleasures so overwhelmed them, that they gave up on the first lessons of maturity and decorum and made a dishonest mess upon her, humiliating her further with the expectation that she should rejoice as she would at the depravity of the men and their unholy expenditures and reliefs, and would punish her if they were not convinced of her sincerity.

They would swat her breasts with their fingers and then their flattened hands, and they would advance their crimes to their bunched up fists, and she would struggle to drag her arms out and find that she couldn’t. Her weight had become bondage, and she would pull and discover that her hands would be actually fastened behind her, and she would be tied dishonorably down to her own bed, spread wide and open, and all she could do was take whatever was dished out to her. She was abused and beaten and penetrated by the women until the brotherhood careened back, drunk out of their minds, to squander her grace some more, and were dared to do worse to her by the ladies, and the men would take up the challenge. She welcomed them. Her complexions began to change color, from lush and fair and pink to red and black and blue, and then on to the breaking of blood vessels under her skin with bruisings of darker reds and purples and yellows and greens. Her race changed to polychromatic. Her eyes would swell shut, her lips would inflate, her cheek muscles would sag. She would appear to have been so injured and violated that a hospital would be called by concerned parishioners were she to stagger down the street this way: naked, overcome with injury, conquered of her poise and tact, encouraging all to be serviced by her and her entrances. She tried to say something, to protest their treatment of her, and she couldn’t. Her mouth had been stoppered up with something she couldn’t see, and then she couldn’t see anything; she opened her eyes to darkness. She was blindfolded and began to panic, and the strikings got harder and sharper. She could hear, amidst all the insults and suggestions for even worse treatment—not to mention the vile name-calling that broke her—the sound of air parting, followed by a flash of pain across her stomach, her chest, the tops of her legs, and she would thrash about, making what noises she could that only had one meaning.

The pressure would all come off her, she would be lifted up out of the bed, and her hands would be yanked up behind her in strappado. She would get pulled by her arms, up, up, up, until she could feel nothing but cold oxygen around her on all sides, and all of her weight was bearing down from her wrists, threatening to dislocate her shoulders; she was suspended in space. The air would part toward her again, and the stripe of fire would cross her back, and then her breast, and it would happen again and again. She would be struck where she sat, upon her feet, her armpits, indeed everywhere, upon all the places that were hidden by her clothes, and the onslaught set on faster, and harder, and it became eternal. A breeze would be generated by how fast and how hard whatever she was being hit with came, and then there seemed to be more than one, and then there seemed to be more than two, and then four, and she lost count, and whatever she was getting hit with changed size, from thin razor lines of instant lava up through belts with the buckles raising mountainous welts on tender places on to something akin to hands that had hate surging through them, then larger things, not unlike a plank or the side of a barn. The hits circled round her and the barrage came at her from all sides simultaneously, and it went on and relentlessly on as she keened and howled over the gale in the darkness.

She could hear, over the roar of the wind, over her own cryings, soaring over her misery, how the ridicules from the crowd escalated and called for her blood, chanting to let her have it, to really fucking give it to her, that she fucking deserved to god damn suffer, that she should be bawling by now, with deliberations and bets being made about how and when she would break down into making interesting offers of her possessions and her body and her own willingness and complicities toward disgusting and unpleasant actions, and there were endless clamors to "let me do it, I’ll show her how to really fucking hurt," and the assaults and the torments and the torture went on forever until, for no apparent reason, the eye of the storm happened, and all would be silent save for her mewlings, and then what she was truly afraid of began to come about amidst the rising defamation and reproach and utter contempt for her, for her gender, for all that she held sacred. She could feel her feet being pulled, being stretched up in opposite directions by forces unstoppable, rending her apart, spreading her legs wider than she thought possible as she dangled there in space, exposed, taut, aching, whipped for all to see, and the storm came raging back. The focus changed from her front, from her back, from her feet, from her legs, and the hurricane reared up and focused there, right at the top between her legs, at the very center and core of her being, and the firestorm built as the strikes came in from all directions, all landing there where her beloved had been, where all the men and all the women had inserted themselves into her womanhood, and she was attacked without mercy. She begged under her gag, and the crowds laughed as she whined out her pleadings to stop, please, stop, and her agony built on beyond what she could tolerate, long and hard beyond what she could imagine, until at long last, her gag popped out of her mouth, and she could rasp and scream, she could scream out an atrocity to be defiled upon the very name of the lord for abandoning her to these demons, she could scream for all she was worth, and she screamed, and she screamed harder than she thought possible, and she would continue to scream on and on and on, for that was all that she could do.

Her husband, lying next to her, long finished with his chore, startled awake at her tender gasp, and put his hand on her shoulder. She jumped right on out of her skin, and nearly off the bed. Her eyes popped open in the dark, and she would be there, beside him in their bed in their own home, safe and sound, dressed once again in what she slept in on nights like this, with the weight of the blankets bearing down on her, with her legs still spread slightly as they had been when he got off her and rolled over to go to sleep. What he had left her with seeped out onto her nightgown and on through onto the mattress for her to sleep in, to remind her to change the sheets tomorrow, and she rolled around and withdrew her hands out from underneath her, out of breath, and he asked her if she was alright. She swallowed, and caught hold of herself, and latitudinally turned herself onto her side to face him, and she would hesitate only slightly before she assured him, calm again, demure, docile, "yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you, dear."

He would mutter something about a dream—still half-asleep—before he would lean across and kiss her on the end of her nose, and put one hand onto her shoulder, making the slightest of hugs, before turning back away and saying good night, not even finishing his affirmation of his feelings towards her before slurring back off to wherever he had been before she woke him.

She laid there, almost in tears, staring at where a ceiling should be, and, after the father of her children started again snoring up a monsoon, she would creep out of the bed, out of the room, and retreat to the bathroom across the hall in the night, opening it as quietly as she could, to keep it from clicking away her position. She would look toward the mirror in the dark for an interminable minute and not see anything but the abyss. Her breath would come shallow and fast before her face would crumple and she would crouch and then squat and kneel and then lie down on the floor, ashamed of what she was about to do. She would hitch up the hem of her nightgown, and, reaching under it, perform a sin upon herself there was no reference to in the good book. It was of no matter; her faith was sure that her actions here were wrong, and not approved, and immoral.

She circles the precious site her better half comes so close to, but has no care or knowledge of, and beckons the crowds to come back. Not hearing or seeing any of them, she removes her nightgown altogether in frustration, and spreads her legs wide, invading into herself to a hidden place with fingers and a thumb until her whole hand disappears, drenched in the white mud she now possesses that she didn’t have before, and, eliciting moans she does not make for the man in her bed with the attentions of some other fingers she has upon a more apparent and infamous obscurity, she loses herself to what her hands dance to before she spies the villains beginning to crowd around the edges of the room to watch her performance as they pull on their penises, their erections, their fucking cocks, and her breath quickens as they jerk off to the very sight of what she is doing. One after another, they expend, no, they come, no, they fucking blow load after load after god damn load of semen of sperm of jism of spunk of blessed cum onto her naked quivering body, especially onto her face, especially into her open clutching mouth, and they applaud her for being a good little bitch, a fabulous little cunt, carrying on about what a filthy fucking little slut she is, and how they like that, and what fine little whore she will be when they are through with her and how they cannot god damn wait to put her through her paces and fuck her senseless again as she enacts what her long-sainted mother had advised her of—in the back of the church while they sipped their coffee and waited for the time to come for her to make her vow—as to what she could accomplish by herself if she should, perchance, fail to see god when her matrimonial burdens have come to pass, "despite what are and would be and ever shall be, no doubt, your spouse’s best efforts to lay you, my treasure, bare to glory," and she overwhelmed herself and all she had ever been taught as she made her own dishonest, humiliating, and degrading mess amidst her bliss that she made no effort whatsoever to stop. It took a lot of practice for her to get to where she could reliably get whatever this was that came out of her at times like this to accurately angle up and land directly in her desperate mouth, especially in the dark, and she drinks of herself with an expression of evil and elation that she has on her face at no other time.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Circuit

By Brewt.Blacklist

June-July 2014

COWARD.

Sorry; what?

Poser.

What’s bringing this on?

Pansy-ass wimp. Fucking fake. Chicken.

What the fuck?

You know god damn good and well what, you malingering faint-hearted pussy.

Pretty sure I don’t.

Oh, bullshit. Why don’t you just let me go? Leave me the fuck alone.

No, I think you need to tell me what the hell is going on.

Why don’t you just make me?

And just how do you propose I do that?"

See? I just insulted you with what are deemed to be some of the worst things you can say to a man, and offered to lay myself open to whatever you can think to do, and you just sit there like the fraidy-cat wimpy liar you are.

Back up. Reset. Start the fuck over. Go back to the, you know, beginning.

You are not what you said you were.

I’m not?

You said you were a fucking sadist.

Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.

Which you are not.

I see. And what makes you think that?

For one thing, you aren’t pounding the shit out of me right now.

Oh. Wow. My bad.

And the truth is that you don’t ever really hurt me.

I might want to protest that.

Really? When? How?

Well, let me think now. Night before last I seem to remember spanking you.

God. That wasn’t a real spanking. That was a little play-slap and tickle. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the last time you completely went off on me and made me regret even knowing you.

Well, given that you are making such an enormous deal about the, what, lack of emergency room care, you suddenly seem to have decided you regret knowing me without me even doing anything.

Oh, no you don’t. Don’t you try to twist this into some punishing-me-by-not-punishing-me bullshit.

I don’t know; you seem pretty stressed. Looks to me like that might be working.

No dice, bunny boy. You are not a sadist. You are a fucking nice guy who’s been pawning himself off as one because you happen to be able to scare the shit out me by what you can write. It’s a world of difference between that and someone who can actually rip a strip out of me, and jerk off in the process.

Ah. The masochism is running a little hot today, isn’t it?

I don’t know what the hell you mean by that, and what the fuck do you care.

No, this is an expression of your own self-defeat, your own self-loathing. You despise yourself so fucking bad that you cannot bear the idea of someone—anyone—hating you any less than you do.

Oh, gee-shucky darn, there, mister. What an awesome analysis. Did you get that from a cereal box? And I suppose now you are going to try to tell me that to placate me that you feel exactly that way? That you however I can hate me you can hate me better? Comfort me with how much you abhor me?

I don’t abhor you.

My point exactly. You care. You think that somewhere in here is someone worth saving, someone worth having delicate tender little feelings for, and that’s where all the rot sets in. It’s already been so long since you hurt me so hard my mind erases that I can’t remember when you ever did, and soon, I’m going to be something inestimable to you, a treasure you’re going to have to protect from the big bad world out there, and you’ll put me up on some kind of god damn pedestal. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to fucking marry you, start squeezing out kids, and bake cookies. I’ll be a trophy slut that you keep in the case in the house to keep from damaging my value. Something you won’t even shit on or piss on or hit or hurt or fuck or make do things you know I don’t want to do. Because you are afraid you are going to damage me. Newsflash, buddy-boy: I’m already damaged.

Okay. So. I haven’t been pushing you hard enough lately. Point taken. So come over here and suck my cock.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Why? You afraid you’re going to be rewarding me for my not-so-bad behavior?

Bingo, you faggy-dicked cocksucking weakling.

Alright, this does present a challenge. So, tell me something, my precious little angel—

—Fuck you—

—Ahem. My precious little narcissistic selfish angel who tops from the bottom and is nothing but a fount of complaints about how she is treated.

God damn it.

Are you trying to tell me that the satisfaction du jour that will keep you interested and engaged and willing to continue with me—the very me that you are so inventively name-calling as nothing but a pitiful charade and a fraud—is for me to cowboy up and disregard the safeties, that I should not be attentive to what I am doing to you and simply hit you for the sake of hitting you, for getting the motion to happen in my arm to happen for the sake of the motion?

You’re not helping.

No, I mean it. You’re saying that I am not doing what it takes here and what will be really satisfying to you is that I should simply not stop hitting you until I pound you into the ground, that I should basically just beat you to death, are you not?

I…well…no, I don’t want to die.

Oh, well, then, let me cater to your wish for your awesome little life to continue as an invalid, permanently maimed and disfigured, unable to do anything without the assistance of the home medical profession, leaving you a vegetable that can’t eat or shit or move or even breathe on your own, then. Since you’re being so kind as to spare me the chair for having murdered you.

What?

Oh, but that would serve, would it not? To commit assault and battery and hey, how could we forget aggravated rape upon you—and perhaps a little enslavement action; can’t forget crimes against humanity—not to mention the affront to femininity that I as a man in general represent to all women everywhere by simply existing such that I should spend the rest of my life in a penitentiary for violent offenders and get my own good self butt-fucked for the remainder of my days by the criminal element in order to satisfy you and your little longings such that you got me to commit a hard enough felony on you that might actually matter to society. Right?

Stop it.

Are you saying that you don’t want it to go that far? That maybe the notion of having to suffer brain damage or to losing limbs is maybe a higher price than you’re willing to pay for me and my cock? I know: how ‘bout I bleed you to where you pass out from the blood loss, and you can explain, in the hospital, when you wake up from all the transfusions, that no, officer, we were just playing, he didn’t mean to go too far, I’ll be fine, really.

Gross.

What limit is far enough? I myself am quite satisfied with the idea that I most sincerely believe that if I ask you to do something, something painful, something humiliating, something that you don’t even like or want to happen that you will go out of your way to make sure that it does, for the mere sake of me being able to think to myself that "yeah, she’d do even that for me," and that gets me so hot that I can’t wait and I have to masturbate myself into a frenzy to the point that I cannot perform for real, and I will leave you stranded and without the satisfaction of the penetration of a big, fat, hard, long, pounding, throbbing, dripping cock—especially one that forces its way into some place uncomfortable or unspeakable—such that you should then get to suffer long and hard through orgasm denial and that, too, feeds a part of my need for acknowledgement and acceptance that only the peculiar institution itself can take care of. I’m getting what I need; why aren’t you satisfied?

Because you aren’t asking for any of that shit.

Asking what?

Asking me to allow you to perform an atrocity upon me, or to perform one upon myself.

Ah. So you’re bored.

I…yes. You aren’t making use of me, and I feel useless and empty.

And you’re not willing to feel that way for me.

Don’t even go there. That’s the whole torture-me-by-not-torturing-me shit, and I won’t stand for it. I’ll leave.

Right. You’ll leave me because you’re bored here with me in order to go sit by yourself and be alone and be bored by yourself.

Pretty sure I won’t be bored, although a little peace and quiet would be nice. There is no shortage of available men out there who are perfectly willing to abuse a woman any way she wants. You’re replaceable.

So. We found a limit. At long god damn fucking last.

What?

The super-submissive stone masochist who has no regard for herself or her own safety, who actually needs someone to look out for her and make sure she doesn’t self-inflict any kind of final solution against herself in her efforts to find yet another new height of pain to fly through or another depth of degradation to drag herself through in her relentless quest for rapture is going to safeword because she’s not being entertained enough. She has finally come to the idea that she is maybe worth a little more than the nothing she feels about herself, and she is not willing to suffer through that kind of emptiness. She needs attention. And not just a little, she needs whoever she is with to be completely taken with her and to be perfectly adaptable to whatever mood she is in at a moment’s notice. Now, never mind that he will have to be constantly on guard against the possibility that maybe, just maybe he is not enough for her, because the important thing is that he is to devote his every waking moment and every sleeping dream-moment toward making sure she is properly treated and amused at all times. Even if her definition of "proper treatment" isn’t exactly something the rest of the world would necessarily agree with.

I…uh…

So what’s the difference between having someone who is expending all his efforts toward your perpetual suffering and constant misery and relentless agony and someone who is expending all his efforts toward adoring you and caring for you and dare I say, loving you? Because in both cases, he doesn’t matter at all. All that matters is you.

I-I don’t like how you did that.

Tough toenails. Submission is a ruse. It’s a negotiating tactic, to offer up to some poor schlepp some piece of attention that he has felt he has been denied all his life, all geared toward the idea that even though he treats you some kind of bad that he’s been taught not to do that you are alright with him getting away with that with you. He’s not really treating you "bad." Despite all the over-theatrical appearances of servitude and compliance and yielding towards him and all his little perversities, it is in fact he that is honoring you and your wishes and taking the utmost care of you in any and all circumstances by making sure you are still alright before he starts bossing you around, insisting you sexualize anything and everything about him with all the threats and realities of punishments, from slight to severe, for failing in any way shape or form. He is in fact caring for you and taking better care of you than you can care for yourself and playing into you and your little perversities and giving you what you really want above everything else, which is to be relieved of all fucking responsibility. Someone who doesn’t have a choice doesn’t have to make one. And the funny part of it all is that through all of it you are expecting that it will be he who is the one that is changing himself, tearing himself to pieces to be able to bring himself to inflict some new horror onto you that you deliberately set him up for. Doing something petty and stupid and slightly wrong to force him into the position of having to wreak something awful on you that he maybe doesn’t even want to do as long as it’s all at the level you are willing to tolerate that you feel that you deserve today. All of which is going to be completely different from how you feel tomorrow. The masochist never actually changes inside of herself because of anything anyone else ever does to her. You are fucking immutable. If I hurt you, all I do is feed you and your own self-esteem issues. And fuck me sideways with something hard over me and my cherished little feelings about all this; it’s my job to do nothing but take care of you. You do not take care of me.

Wrongo, bucko. Submission is a stance, it is a position in the world. I am beneath you, and I defer to you, to give you the bolster to your pride and your ego that you need to go back out into the world and conquer. By overthrowing me and whatever genuine resistance I might have to the most outlandish deviancy you can come up with, you can come to the idea that you can rule out there no matter what they do to try to defeat you. It is a service I perform to you and your needs and your cock, and it isn’t a casual little game, it is a way of life. When I give myself to you, you don’t get a little piece of me, you get everything. Lock stock and barrel. You get my body to do with as you please, you can tinker with my emotions. You tell me to think something, I will think it. You tell me to believe something, I will believe it with all my heart and defend it and you and everything you do to me to the death. I. Am. Your. Property. Submission a ruse? That’s—no—that’s not true.

It most certainly is. You don’t want me to kill you, remember? And here you are, threatening to leave me: my car doesn’t do that. There is a "too much," and there are limits that come on way before anything to do with any kind of final solution, and not just one. Despite how hard you tout that when you submit, you really fucking submit and you give up on choice and defer on everything and all and will simply go with whatever I say, saying "you pick, whatever you want," that is simply not true. You have more negotiations on the side and preferences and suggestions and requests and insistences and restrictions and out-and-out naggings in what you will allow and won’t allow than if you were a plain vanilla jane who only permitted me to fuck her on Saturday night with the blinds drawn and the lights out in the missionary position wearing pajamas. At least they’re up front about it.

No; I’m here to submit to you, to cater to you, to serve you, to be your slave in all things, to do what you want, to be what you want. I am here to kneel.

Horseshit. You are such an attention whore that you demand compliments on everything you do and don’t do all the god damn time, and frankly, it’s exhausting. "Good girl, you got me a cup of coffee, good girl, you sucked my cock so good, good girl, you took that whipping well." And god forbid I should leave you to fend for yourself, to allow you even the possibility you should find yourself even for just a moment blasé and disinterested in whatever you think is my responsibility to keep your sophisticated attention span from lagging. The worst sin I could commit against you is to bore you, and it is one you will not forgive me for.

Fine. You want to kill me? Go ahead. I won’t care.

No, you won’t care, because you’d be dead. And you plainly don’t care now what that would do to me. Because I am the one that is expendable here. You’ve said so yourself. If I let you get tired of anything, I will have failed you, and deserve to be punished with the worst thing you can think of: the removal of your own good company, and just let me see if I can find someone to replace such a priceless jewel as yourself. You want it both ways: you want to be treated like you are completely worthless, and you want to be treated as though you are completely valuable. Simultaneously.

Great. Now I’m the bad guy. Just as I suspected. Awesome.

Oh, grow up. This isn’t about good guys and bad guys, or nice and nasty, or right and wrong, or even sadism and masochism. This is about you and me, and whether or not we are together. If the answer to that is "yes," then everything after that is a crap shoot.

So why bother?

Because I don’t know about you, but I still have some faith to expend here.

Why does it always have to be life or death with you?

Because it always is, with or without my say so. And in case you haven’t noticed, I keep choosing life: life with you. I am not interested in having you die. Your death would take you away from me, and make it so I couldn’t do what I want to do with you. Which is what you just threatened me with. Leaving me, taking your own good self away from me, making it so I don’t have you here any more. And you are willing to do that because you don’t find me exhilarating enough. You are the second most selfish person I know.

So fuck me and all my evil ways. Haven’t you had enough of all the terrible burden I seem to be placing on you? Why won’t you let me go?

Because I still love you, and, for my own selfishnesses, I still want you around. Because I am the most selfish person I know, and I want you to stay, and I want you to suffer for me and my sake. To feel what I want you to feel. To do what I want you to do. I’m not done with you.

I…Well. When you put it that way. What do you want me to do for you, master?

Take off your god damn clothes.

Fine. Whatever.

Let me look at you.

God, I hate that. There are so many things wrong with me.

So? Stand there, put your arms down and let me look. And quit frumping.

Look, can’t you just do something to me that hurts?

I am. I am hurting your pride, your endless vanity. Just the act of looking tears you to ribbons. Now stand there and suffer.

That’s not what I mean. You know what the fuck I mean. Please?

Of course. Give me your arm.

Why?

So I can pull it up behind your back while you suck my cock. In fact, give me both of them.

That would really fucking hurt.

Isn’t that what you wanted?

Yeah, but not the way you do it. You don’t hate me enough to do it right.

What? So? It still hurts, doesn’t it?

It feels different. I can feel you caring in how you pull, in how you shove my cock down into the back of my throat. You don’t cut loose. You will not break my arm.

So you want me to break your arm? I think what you really want is to be hate-fucked.

I want to feel like I have survived. Like I have been put through the wringer.

Like you’ve triumphed. Like you have proven yourself. You want to show off how noble and strong you are.

I’m not strong. I am so fucking weak, I cannot stand it.

Nonsense. If I were to say to you that I wanted to cane you until you bleed, would you consent?

In a heartbeat. You wouldn’t even have to tie me up.

You call that weak? If I were to say to you that I wanted to plunge needles into you over your entire body, into soft spots, into bone, wherever, and hook them up to electricity and make you dance and convulse and hurt, on beyond the point that you could do anything but sweat and scream, would you allow for that?

I would totally hate that, but yes.

Such a fragile and frail little thing you are. No strength whatsoever. Shouldn’t you be fainting by now? Or are you just a girl who can’t say no?

Is that what you want me to do? Say no? Sing? You are so confusing.

How about I get a razor blade and cut you open, just enough to part your flesh and pack it with cigar ash, just enough to scar you permanently, would you say yes?

Wh-where?

That’s not what I asked you. I didn’t say "I want to put an innocuous little cut on you, so tiny it would be almost cute, so please pick a nice spot that you would be comfortable with that that wouldn’t show," I said, "cut you; scar you." Period. I pick where. I could choose anywhere: your face, your tits, your legs that you are so proud of, maybe someplace you can’t see, maybe someplace you’d have to explain to people who couldn’t help but do a double take when they look at you when they pass you on the street. Perhaps I’ll leave you in such a state as to frighten small children. I know: how about I carve and scar into you the words "slut," and "bitch," and "cunt," and "whore," and "fucktoy," and "cocksucker," and "asslicker," and "painslut," and "humilationwhore," and "slave," and "all you have to do is ask," right out there where it would be difficult to cover up, so there would be no question as to what you really are. Or maybe I’ll have you tattooed with instructions to anyone who reads it on just how to abuse you in ways you would hate, with the assurance that you would welcome it anyway. I’m sure the words "hit me" on the inside of your lower lip would do wonders for your pout. Yes or no?

…Y-yes.

Suppose let’s say that you should get all gussied up and we were to go downtown tonight to one of the bars, and I would send you off to go hit on some actual nice guy who sits up straight and wears a tie and has both hands on the table around his drink and you ask him if you can sit down with him and you pay no attention to how he stammers or stutters out his surprise at a pretty girl asking to sit next to him and you slide around to his side of the booth and put your elbow up on the table and your head under your hand and you introduce yourself and ask him his name and sit up straight and nudge in a little closer to him and you repeat his name to him and shake his hand and you repeat his name to him twice more, relishing the pronunciation of it the first time and whispering it the second and you find out what he does for a living and you make some lame comment about meeting people in bars and you bat your eyes at him and you smile at him and ask him what he’s drinking, and then you ask if you can have a sip and you drink down half of whatever he has left and you compliment him on whatever it is and slump the rest of the way over to him so that your leg is actually up against his and you laugh and put your head on his shoulder and hook your arm into his elbow and pull it towards you so that it comes in contact with your breast and you do not back away and you carry on a conversation with him and lead him on to think that you are a nice, good respectable girl that he suddenly has a chance with, and you could smile at him and engage with him on whatever he wants to talk about and you should laugh at his jokes as you squirm in the booth and adjust yourself to the music and you could maybe mention that you would want to go to church with him, and you put your hands on him in ways that are okay and innocuous at first and you persist and cross the line to make it clear that it wasn’t an accident, that it was deliberate and you put your leg over his under the table and pull his legs apart with yours at his knees and pull your leg up his as high as you can get it and you spread yours, too, and you start rolling your hips around slowly, slightly next to him and you move on to touch him in ways you maybe shouldn’t but you can’t help yourself and when he freezes and doesn’t move you pull your hands and your leg off him and be all shy and concerned that you maybe offended him so he can say "no, uh, no, it’s okay," and so you pick it back up right where you left off and make sure you leave one hand under the table and you pull up your skirt to expose your panties and you rub between your legs over them there and you make sure that he notices and take the little shake of his head that he’ll do when he does notice you doing that as the go ahead to shift yourself around so that if he looks down he can definitely see what you’re doing and if he can’t figure it out for himself you hint with your eyes that you want him to look and take the opportunity when he does do that to pull your hand up so he can see you can push it back down inside the waist band of your panties and make it clear that you are wiggling a finger directly on where your clit would be for a few seconds before you push it down further so you can get actually inside yourself and you squirm and you masturbate for him like that by moving your hand back and forth there, between playing with your clit to reaching inside yourself until his breathing changes which you will take as the indication that it would be okay for you to become familiar with his muscles and bones with your other hand and you relish squeezing him here and there and gasp out loud with an exhale when you find a stretch of flesh in his arms or his legs that makes him flinch when you touch it and you find out if he’s ticklish or not and you play with that a little and when he looks up all wide-eyed you offer up that you are very ticklish and you tell him where and position yourself so he can touch you there and you laugh and curl around all coy and cute and pull your hand out from your panties and inhale hard with it under your nose and if he’s interested, you offer it to him to do the same and you compliment him relentlessly about how this is all turning you on and how much you like this and you get him all hot and bothered and you do whatever it takes over his clothes to get his cock hard as a fucking rock right there in the booth, so hard that he is overcome by it all and is anxious to get started with what just has to happen next and you let him put his arms around you and you let him kiss you on your neck at first and make it clear that you are enjoying that and then wiggle yourself around so he can reach your cheek then you pull your head back and look deep into his eyes and then drop them down to look at his lips and you slowly reposition your head as you move in and brush his lips with yours and you linger into a kiss, a real kiss, a bride’s kiss, gentle and sweet and persistent such that it should continue forever, pushing your tongue onto his lips at first, smiling as your feel him quiver and you take a moment to compliment him on how good he tastes before you pull hard on him and force yourself into his mouth, licking his tongue and his teeth and you breathe through his mouth and moan as you do it and you keep at it and hang onto him there for dear life, relaxing into his arms, molding your body onto his, until he pulls away to inhale real air and not air that has been in your lungs and you slowly let him find his way to your breasts, encouraging him if you have to, and when he gets his tentative fingers actually onto you there you pant through your open mouth with your eyes wide and boring into his hard until he gets his palm onto the front of breast so he can feel your erect nipple and then you gasp again, inhaling a squeal this time, hard and sharp, heaving your breasts in the process, pulling his other hand up onto your other breast and pushing them hard to his hands and you do everything you can to convey in no uncertain terms that what you really want before you go to church in the morning with him is to have him inside you anywhere and everywhere you can get him and when he nods his head the little nod that he will do when you whisper that into his ear, you tell him that the time has come that you and he should go fuck and you make sure that the "f" of that word is long and the "u" is soft and the "k" is hard and sharp and clear and you pitch it so that it sounds like you want to do that right god damn here right god damn now and you tell him in no uncertain terms that you think they should go and that you should go right now and you shimmy out of the booth brushing your skirt back down and you make sure that he understands that you are reaching over to hold his hand and you pull on it gently to get him to follow you and keep looking back at him to smile at him and crook your neck and your shoulders with a "come hither" in your motions as you take him out into the back alley where I would be waiting for you to come out and you tell him to wait just a second, that you have to do this first, and you let go of his hand and step towards me with a sashay in how you cross your ankles and sway your hips as you walk towards me, taking off your dress up over your head and your bra and your panties and you don’t just drop your clothes, you throw them away from you as far as you can and when you are standing before me naked with your legs spread, with us positioned so he can see that you don’t have any pubic hair, you slowly and elegantly kneel down in front of me and open my pants and take out my cock and you open your mouth around the biggest smile you can put on and you put one hand in mine and your other behind your back and you turn to him and wink at him and then you look up at me with every ounce of adoration you have and you clearly nod and I will break the little finger in the hand of yours I have in mine and your mouth will fall further open with a groan and I will piss on your face, your hair, your body and especially in your mouth that you make a big show of swallowing and twisting around the hand I still hold and squeeze with you shaking your other hand in delight over all that is happening to you and you beg me for more, saying "please, piss in my mouth, I want you to," and "god, that hurts, thank you, I like it," until I am done and you wipe off your face and lick your good hand with murmuring sounds about how good it is before you turn toward him and you seductively crawl to him with a limp on your bad hand, swinging your hips and your body so your breasts sway underneath you across the filth in the alley with you focused on him with lust in your heart and when you reach him you put your hands on his legs and walk them up slowly, one hand on, one hand off, flinching with each press of your broken finger, up his leg a little higher with each climb, nodding the whole time until you get to his belt and you open his pants and get them to drop to his ankles and take his hard cock and hold it gingerly with your broken hand, moaning and panting as you bend it down far enough that his back arches and hold your mouth open right over what is in your fingers, tempting him by putting your mouth onto his cock as far as you can get it without touching him with your lips or your tongue or your teeth and you breathe hot breath onto his flesh, inhaling through your nose so all he can feel is heat through at least three such rasping breaths before you pull back and hook your unbroken little finger into his fist and look up at him and swear by the god you both worship that you will let him fuck you in the ass as hard as he wants after you suck his cock for as long as he wants you to starting right then and there if he would only do to you what I just did, all of it, and to seal the deal you tell him to be sure to hold my hands tight, baby. Is there any question you’d do that for me and my entertainment?

Absolutely not.

Is your pussy wet?

Fuck, yes!

Play with yourself, right now. Show me how you can get yourself off.

Talk to me, please.

I cannot remember the last time you rubbed one out for me. I want you to do it now, I want you to be loud, and I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to get up and jump up and down, so your boobs bounce hard and I want you to do it so long that they ache so hard that you beg me to stop and I won’t let you, you can only stop jumping when you collapse. When that happens, I want you spread your legs as far as you can get them and curl up on your back so you can reach because what I want you to do is to get your entire hand inside yourself, four fingers and a thumb, all the way up past your palm all the way up to your forearm, right in your pussy, and I want you to get as many fingers as you can get into your asshole, too, and rub your clit with your wrist and fist fuck yourself as hard as you can and I want to sit on your face while you drive your tongue into my asshole as far as you can get it, and I want to slap your tits as hard as I can until they bruise, I want them to hurt for a week, with or without a bra, and I will pinch your nipples as hard as I can and twist them so far you’ll be afraid they are going to come off until I can’t pinch my fingers together any more, and I will fart in your mouth and you will change whatever it takes inside you to get off on all that, you will come, you will come like the god damn slut who can’t help herself that you so fucking are, you will come.

Oh my god!

Come for me now, that is an order, I want you to squirt, cunt; I want you to fucking scream. Do it right god damn now, you fucking whore.

Oh! Oh! OH! Fuck! Fuck!

…Are you alright?

Oh, shit, yes.

Did you come?

Do you have to ask? Yes. Yes I did. Thank you. I needed that. Oh. Wow.

Good. Listen, I gotta go. Call you tomorrow?

Yes. Yes, sir. Please.

Okay. Good night.

Hey?

What?

When are we gonna meet?

Someday. Promise.

I really want to.

So do I. Really.

Okay.

Tell me you love me, bitch.

Not a fucking chance, hero.

I’ll wait.

Asshole. Good night.

Posted with Blogsy

Party Favor

By Brewt.Blacklist

June 2014

For the occasion of Ashley Zacharias’ birthday

THE PARTY at Bob and Sally’s was something we had been looking forward to for a couple weeks. It was expected to be quite the affair; several families had been invited, and Bob was doing burgers on the grill. We brought a bottle of wine, and Alice had found a small gift for Sally and a card to take from us. The card read:

 

This is a secret you and I can definitely share.

"The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly and lie about your age."

—Lucille Ball

This year, we’re 39, right?

Happy 39th birthday!

 

Other couples’ cards were of the same vein, and there was cake and ice cream and the kids were all sent into the back yard to play once the song had been sung and the candles had gotten blown out.

The adults were left inside, and we all sat around a big circle in the living room, with a big production being made about the presents and the sentiments among friends of growing up and growing old together. It was a good party. When all had been accomplished, a small hush fell through the room, as Sally beamed and relished at what appeared to be her gratitude of everyone being there. She stood and cleared her throat to make an announcement.

"I have a request to make of everyone here, and I want everyone’s assurance that I will have your support through this."

There was a mixture of assent and concern throughout the murmurings from everyone in the room, with a general agreement that whatever she needed, we would all be there for her.

"Everyone has to participate. I’m not asking much; if I can do this, you can, too. As my friends." She held her pinky in her mouth as she stood before her husband and wiggled her torso back and forth. He started to stand and she held him down and pushed him to lean back in his chair. She stepped around to the side. She reached up under her skirt and proceeded to take her panties down to her ankles, and she bent over his legs and lifted her dress. He asked her if she was really sure she wanted to do this, and she nodded, and put her hands down on the floor on the other side of his lap. Bob took a deep breath, pulled his hand back, and proceeded to spank her.

There were collective gasps throughout the room. Most of the women turned their heads. Most of the men did not.

There is some kind of an internal clock in me that starts up counting things before I am even aware that I am doing it until the seventh or eighth iteration of whatever it is I’m being made aware of—instances of a speaker saying "uh" during a speech, the number of maniacal toon vehicles that roar around me on the highway, the ever-increasing count of commercials during the breaks in TV shows, whatever—gets pushed into my deliberate consciousness, and this was no exception. The swats and the slaps rang throughout the room. No one was daring to make any noise, hell, no one was daring to breathe throughout it all. Sally stayed put, and Bob delivered through the requisite number of thirty-nine, and he helped her up when he was done. She bent over and kissed him on the cheek, thanking him. She reached down and wrestled her panties the rest of the way off over her shoes, and handed them to him with a smile.

Three couples stood to leave.

"No, no, no. You cannot go. My darling husband has merely started the proceedings. I am requiring this from everyone here."

"Absolutely not," said one of the husbands who had his marching orders from his wife.

Sally stepped over to bar the way out of the front door. "I must insist. This is very important to me."

"Well, no. We are not interested," the wife said. The other two standing couples all nodded in unison; it was like they had rehearsed.

"Look, I’m not trying to get anything bad to happen, but it is quite simple. Everyone in this room is going to spank me today, and I am quite serious about it. What’s more, it isn’t going to be just today. I am going to get spanked or paddled or whipped or whatever thirty-nine times every day this year by one of you. There is going to be a rotation, and you will all participate. Every last one of you."

Two of the standing husbands started chuckling, again with the appearance of long hours of practice to get the timing just right, and it spread like a sequence to the other men, standing and sitting; myself included. "What makes you think we will agree to that?" One of the other men asked.

"Because if you don’t, I will get your children to do it. They won’t balk one bit."

"Don’t be ridiculous. That’s child abuse."

"Oh, so you’re prepared to have me labeled as a pedophile and a sex offender because you are uncomfortable with a stupid childhood game? Can you imagine who I’d have to get to do what I want in prison? Are you so ready to so completely hate and write off someone you were so happy to be with not five minutes ago? What kind of people are you?"

"Come on, Sally," I said. "What kind of person are you to put us, your friends into such an awful and tasteless position as this?"

"This is something I need to happen, and I have come to you, my friends, to help me with it."

"Why?"

"It’s not simple or just about one thing. It’s a part of who I am and always have been that I have kept hidden from you all that I can no longer—in good conscience—continue to do so." Bob nodded, with his eyebrows all the way up. "And I don’t care how you justify it to yourself, whether you’re taking pity on some poor sick person that you’re determined you’re going to somehow find some obscure way laced with platitudes to save me from myself, or if you have always secretly wanted to wreak some horrible vengeance on women in general or on me specifically and you run off to masturbate with the furies afterwards, or whatever twisted or benign rationale you can convince yourself of, you are the people I want to do this."

"I don’t want to do this!" One of the standing wives was overwhelmed by her own outburst: bent over, purple-faced, trembling. It took a solid three seconds—one, two, three—of silence after that for her to bury her face in her hands, crying, completely ashamed to have had such an emotional moment, embarrassed to be looked at by all her friends, humiliated to the core to have even been here and to even have the suggestion of such a horror being placed right there in front of her with the unspeakable expectation that she have anything whatsoever to do with it at all. It was how we all felt. Her husband put his arm around her and helped her sit back down. There were whispers going around the room.

My wife said something I don’t think anyone heard, and I snapped to face her, my own eyes wide. "What?"

She cleared her throat, and everyone looked at her. "I said we’re in." Alice couldn’t lift her eyes from the floor, nor could she blink them. "Are none of you listening to her? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to have anything more to do with this than any of the rest of you. But look: she just said she was prepared to go to prison here, to be completely ostracized from not just us but the entire community, and all for what, the idea that she thinks she needs a spanking? Who are we to say that she doesn’t?"

"She needs help." The other sitting husband, the one trying to comfort his out-of-her-element wife, chimed in. A definite knack for the obvious, that one always had.

"No question. And she just asked us for it. Now, I am the first to disagree with the course of this treatment, but I can’t throw her to the wolves, nor to whatever monsters are out there that would be more than willing to assault a woman who puts herself into the position she is talking about. I mean, my god. Could any of you bear it if she got herself really hurt because of this? Or worse?" My wife, of all the people here, had the most issue with anything even remotely kinky or weird. She was such a stick in the mud I didn’t even bother making a pass at her any more. If she wasn’t in the mood, no power on earth could get her into it, and I ended up waiting for her to come to me, which was nowhere near enough to suit me, but I wasn’t about to take on any of the alternatives, of adultery or divorce or force. I had, by necessity, become a man of waiting. This was so unlike what I had come to expect of her.

She looked up to Sally and held her hand up, opening and closing her fingers.

I could not believe my wife was beckoning our friend to come to her to get spanked.

Sally looked relieved, and bent over and hugged her for the longest time before pulling back, stroking Alice’s hair. If Hollywood clichés meant anything, they were about to kiss, but Alice did something none of the rest of us could see, and Sally bent slowly over her lap. My own wife lifted the skirt of her best friend, and revealed her ass to us all much as Bob did.

"Thank you, Alice."

My wife patted her friend on the butt.

"My darling, I don’t want to be one to complain, but that one didn’t count. You have to do much better than that."

Swat two, or one, depending on how one counts these things, happened, and induced a slight ripple in the bottom laid bare before us all.

"Please, do not be patronizing. I never thought I would ever hear myself say this, but you have to fucking hit me. I love you that you are willing to help, but I’m begging you: don’t play. Do it right. Please."

Alice had to stop herself and collect whatever it was she had to put together to do it. She sat and her breathing accelerated a little, and her face twisted into what she needed to make it do to actually strike her friend with all the force that was expected. She almost looked enraged, and her hand flew so fast I had trouble catching up with the counters until she was well past fifteen.

My wife delivered.

Sally was lurching about, gasping, getting caught up in it, and feeling what it was she had brought us all here together to feel. When the count hit thirty, Alice stopped and caught her breath.

As if they had planned it, they both said "oh god" in unison. Alice slowed down for the last nine strokes, pulling her hand back up behind her head; she applied every ounce of force she could find within her self to vent down her arm, through her hand, onto her friend’s bottom. Sally squealed, and when it was over, she fell off of my wife’s lap onto the floor, only to scramble back up and throw her arms around her spanker. She started kissing her spanker all over her face, deliberately making her way towards her lips, and thanking her, and Alice brought her hand up between them.

"I wish you wouldn’t do that."

"Oh, oh, yes ma’am, I’m sorry ma’am." Sally plopped her head down into Alice’s lap, kneeling on the floor before her, and shook. Her skirt had fallen over the offensive, er, offended portion of her anatomy.

Alice pet her and tried to muster a smile that her friend couldn’t see. She addressed the room: "It’s not so bad, folks. We can do this for her." She wrenched her head up toward me, with her face falling into a dread seriousness, and she tipped her head down toward the woman kneeling before her, keeping her eyes locked on to mine, her lips compressing into a pencil-thin line.

I couldn’t look around the room to see what the other couples were doing, and the last person I wanted to even be aware of was Bob.

I was about to spank his wife. In front of all of our friends. At the behest of my—and his—wife. I felt whatever resistance I may have had about all this fall away from me as it always did when my wife wanted something.

I stood and reached down onto Sally’s hair, barely touching it. She startled up and bored into me, her mouth askew, not breathing. She nodded as small as she could, and struggled to stand up. I held my hand out, and she put her own hand into it, as though I were helping her up stairs or into a car. We turned around and stood by the chair I was sitting in. We were almost clumsy in our attempts to get ourselves positioned right, facing the right directions and the like, and if the doom that was not impending before us as it was, we would have laughed. She defocused her gaze and waited for me to sit back down.

My back was ramrod straight, with my calves formed forty five degree angles to my knees, one foot before, one foot behind. I spread them slightly, and she descended slowly, full of dignity and grace. I thought about physics and leverage and trajectories and lines of force, anything to keep from acknowledging what I was about to do. What I was about to do wasn’t a childish game, it wasn’t a silly party maneuver, it wasn’t some peculiar therapy that we were asked to participate in. It was a religious act, one that called to a god I didn’t believe in through a ritual I didn’t understand for a purpose I had railed against my entire life. A man does not hit a woman, and that’s that. And here I was, in front of all of our friends, about to defy everything I had ever been taught and do exactly that. I pulled my hand back; she almost fell off my lap with my strike. She inhaled sharply, and repositioned herself, to try to stabilize herself against what the first blow promised was to come.

Sally thrashed and cried out and tried to keep her composure and she couldn’t. She shouted and gasped and whimpered and moaned and her noise became more and more continuous and her volume raised and the only other thing I could hear was the sound of my hand hitting her flesh.

Alice touched my shoulder. "That’s enough, dear."

I had no sense of count.

Sally fell off my lap and rolled around on the floor and wept.

I became aware of other couples murmuring disparaging things. "Monster," "barbaric," "how could he," "maybe that’s what she needed to get this out of her fool head," and my head swam. I pulled my eyes up and found the last person I wanted to see. Bob was looking at his wife as she wallowed on the floor, and he was looking forlorn. He lifted his eyes to me, and I shrank back as far as the chair would allow.

He nodded, and looked otherwise completely blank. I collapsed back in my chair, dropped my head, and blushed.

I was in a fog for the rest of the night. Occasionally, the sound of slapping or some grunting would wake me from my dream-state. There was a little pleading from some wife or other, something about "please don’t make me do this," that occasionally caught my attention—whoever was behind this well-practiced script hadn’t thought to include any other lines—but by the time I succeeded in looking up at one time or another, one of the other husbands was hard at it, and never one of the other wives. I had no sense for the passage of time, but the counting mechanisms I had got well into the hundreds at the sounds of slaps before I deliberately shut them down. My wife put her hand on mine when it was time to go, and she asked me if I was okay to drive. My pride insisted I was, and she only had to remind me that the light had changed once. When we got home and in bed, I put my arm around her and cuddled up to her and she flipped her head back and said "really?" and that was that. I think I slept; it did not feel like I did.

The next morning I tried to ask her about it. She looked like she was trying to think about what to say. "There’s a schedule. Sally is going to be coming over every five of six days or so." We set a second or three. "Do you want to be there when she comes for me?"

"I…uh…do you want me to be?"

"It’s up to you."

"I don’t…I don’t think so; no."

"I will offer you the same courtesy."

And that was all we said about it. Sally came by three days later, and she and Alice retreated into our bedroom and closed the door. I went into the living room and tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate on anything on the page in front of me. I ended up turning on the TV. It only took five minutes; it was a ridiculously long five minutes. All commercials: ten of the damn things. When our bedroom door opened, I was sure it was improper to look. I caught a glimpse of Sally as she opened the front door. I glanced up and she was looking at me, smiling. "I’ll see you on Saturday, yes?"

"Uh, yeah. You’ll be coming here, or do you want me to come over?"

"I’ll come by. Is before noon okay?"

"Yeah. Yes. That’d be great."

"Bye."

She darted out the door, and the house went quiet. I sat and couldn’t remember what I was watching; I turned the TV off and went back to our bedroom. I knocked. "Honey?"

"Can I have a few minutes? Please?"

"Sure. Sure." I went back to the living room leaving the door’s closure intact to sit in the quiet. When she came out, she bustled all business and chores and she had to nag me twice to go mow the lawn. It was late in the evening for that sort of thing, but I did it. She wouldn’t talk about what happened that night as well as the next day, and she was utterly unresponsive to my efforts to be intimate for the rest of the week, and every time I so much as suggested I wanted to talk, she would change the subject to some unsavory bodily function and the troubles she’s been having with it lately.

Saturday morning rolled around, and Alice went to the store, taking our daughter with her. I offered to go along, and she tipped her head and smirked.

Oh, yeah.

I prowled around the house, and set in on cleaning. I vacuumed, did the bathroom, the dishes, cleaned out the fridge, and was thinking about scrubbing the kitchen floor when the doorbell rang. I felt rather lost, and wasn’t sure I could even find the door when she started pounding. That snapped me out of my indecision, and despite not remembering where it really was, I found my way to front door and opened it.

She beamed. "Hi."

"Hi." I had nothing scripted.

"Can I come in?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure." I stepped aside, and she glided in past me, and waited for me to close the door.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry?"

She dipped her head with a shy smile. "No. Thanks."

We waited until I could speak. "You know, I’m not reall—"

She glued herself to me, from knees to just below her breasts; she threw one arm around my lower back, pulling me in tight, adjusting herself to be in more intimate contact with me, through our clothes, than Alice ever was when we were engaged in intercourse. Her other hand’s fingers pressed ever so gently on my lips. I tried to open my mouth to say something, something about how improper this was, and her digits found their way inside. She hooked her nails down under my tongue, over my lower teeth. She stepped back, and pulled me toward my bedroom by my mouth. The one I shared with my wife.

Alice released me when we got there, and I stood in the doorway as she ran her fingers up my bed without a word. When she reached the pillows, she paused, and set in on taking off her jeans.

"Do you…need to do that?"

She didn’t answer me. She simply proceeded to take off all her clothes. She didn’t turn to face me; she stood there, naked, facing the headboard. She exhaled, and laid down, face down; she curled her arms underneath her, and finally looked at me with something I had to have termed to be adoration.

"Sally, are you sure?"

"Of course. You know, I’ve been doing this for a week already. Don’t worry. I’m fine." She nodded, and I stepped up to the edge, and held my hand over her ass.

She kept her eyes completely locked on me. "Don’t stint."

I watched myself pull my hand straight up and I could not stop blinking. I shoved my arm straight down and splatted on her flesh. My hand bounced off her.

"Harder."

I did it again, with what I thought was an appropriate level of force.

"Oh, come on."

I ignored her, and did it the way I thought it should go, pulling back ever so slightly at the last instant before impact, more in the process of pulling my hand back up before I even made contact that I was in the process of making contact, in order to minimize the micro-seconds I was touching her. Touching her with force. I did not lose count, and laid it down on her as mechanically and as fast as I could move. I spanked her the required thirty-nine strokes, and when I finished, I left her there to go sit down in my chair in the living room and mope. She came out to where I was sitting a couple minutes later. She crossed to me and bent over to kiss me on the cheek. At least she was dressed.

"You did better the first time."

I glanced up at her, and looked away.

She stayed near me, and I didn’t move. "Th-thank you. I’ll see you in a little over a week."

"Ten days."

"Yes. Ten days."

She found her own way out of the house. I stared at the wall for an hour, until Alice came home with the groceries. I helped her bring them in with our daughter, and we went to a movie in the afternoon. That night, Alice came to me as it was time, the time I tried not to nag her about, the one that only worked on her schedule that she didn’t let me in on which dictated that the time for sex had come, and I did my duty, but no more. I don’t think she came.

And so it went for the next couple months. Every ten or eleven days or so, Sally came to me when Alice—and our daughter—was conveniently not at home, and took off her clothes, and I spanked her. I was not enthused, but Alice always made those nights sex nights, and I was nothing less than uncomfortable through it all. When Sally came by for Alice’s turn, they spent progressively longer and longer time together until they were in there almost an hour, and they would come out giggling or flushed or sympathetic or any of the myriad ways they always spent together when they went shopping or to the park with the kids or were simply sitting around gossiping about this or that or the other. It was almost normal. Almost, but not quite. I never heard anything that went on those evenings, and Alice simply wouldn’t talk about any of it and it never occurred to me to not be there on those nights.

After two-and-a-half months, we were invited over to Bob and Sally's for dinner. The kids were all sent downstairs with pizza and a movie. Two of the other couples from the birthday party was there. Dinner was broiled shrimp put into a salad, and Bob made a big production of the crème brûlée he made for dessert, flashing the torch around with all the appropriate jokes being made about fire departments and fire extinguishers and conflagrations. When what he had done was in everyone’s hands, he said he had to tell us something.

"Two of the couples have dropped out. I am so sorry; they’ll never speak to any of us again. They were very adamant. This is not what we wanted."

After some nervous glances around the room, Alice said, "We’re still here for you." She looked at me. "Screw them."

It was the husband of one of the other couple’s turn, and he really stood and delivered, right there in front of us all. Sally had to be gagged for it, to keep from disturbing the children downstairs. It all went about as though it were normal, expected. Bob and Sally thanked everyone profusely, and went over the schedule. We were all committed to once a week with Sally.

Otherwise, it was a typical dinner party. When Alice and I got home, sex was not to be had.

When Sally came by three days later for me, I followed her into the bedroom. She turned toward me, and said "we have to do it like this now." She produced a long paddle that had holes drilled into it from under her coat, and stood to face me as she stripped.

She was covered with bruises.

"My god."

"Aren’t they lovely?" She turned and displayed herself.

"That’s not the right word."

"Can I get you to do the backs of my thighs? I want to distribute the marks." She bent over and put her hands on the bed, spreading her legs.

"I…Christ." I took the paddle, exhaled, positioned myself to her side, and swung. There was no point in arguing.

"Fuck the count. You’re going to do this until I have the marks I need. You can try to do it with pansy-ass little swats like that one, which means were going to be here a while, or you can man up and do it right."

I let her have it. She fell over onto the bed. "Oh, god, yes, just like that!" She repositioned herself, and I swung and I struck her thighs until the welts began showing and she began moaning. I stopped, and she looked back at herself. "Not yet, hero. You’re getting there."

I threw down on her, until she said that was enough, that we could quit.

"Not yet." I put down another dozen strikes. When I decided I was done—the bruises were deep and red and black and blue already, and she was covered with little pock-marks from the holes in the paddle—I threw the weapon on the bed, and strode out of the room and poured myself a drink. A stiff one that was almost gone by the time she came out.

When she appeared, she was actually limping, and when she reached up to kiss me, she wrapped her fingers into my hair, and poured herself into my mouth. When she finally stopped, coming up for air at last, Alice was there, standing across the room, stunned, frozen.

Sally was out of breath, and pulled back with the slight smile a woman gets when she has gotten away with doing something sinful she had always wanted to do. When she staggered passed Alice, she put her hand to the side of my wife’s face and looked at her. Alice closed her eyes and nodded her head; they may have been whispering. I wasn’t sure.

After Sally left, I looked over to my wife who stared at me, then turned and disappeared into our bedroom. She called to me, and I nearly sprinted after her.

She was naked on the bed, with her legs spread obscenely, her breasts heaving.

I attacked her, and she welcomed me into her, and she fucked me like she had to.

Two weeks later, after two more major assaults I performed onto Sally, with her egging and prompting and begging and kneeling afterwards before me, looking directly into my crotch, pulling herself in as close there as she could get without being in actual contact, so close I could feel her hot breath right through my pants—with Alice and I nearly raping each other afterwards—we were called back to Bob and Sally’s. The kids were watching TV in the basement.

"It’s down to just us."

It was Alice’s night, and she paddled her friend’s bottom as though she were splitting wood, with every ounce of force she could muster. The marks were impressive, to say the least. When she stood there, finished, panting, she dropped the woodpiece, and stunned me. "That’s it. I’m out."

Bob laughed. "So am I." The last person I expected to opt out was Bob.

"Then I guess it’s over." I was actually relieved.

"No; you’re not getting out of it, honey. You have to keep it up."

"You’re kidding."

"Don’t worry. We’re still here for you, Sally. We will not abandon you." She turned her gaze to me and bored into me as she did when something was important for me to understand in no uncertain terms, and she was going to get her way no matter what. Just like she always did, especially when it came time for us in the bedroom, which, remarkably, she had been keeping completely tied to the nights Sally came over, like clockwork. She was more passionate on those nights of late than she had been our entire marriage. "You will not abandon her, will you."

I tried to protest my way out of all this the rest of the evening, and Alice would have none of it. Sally spent the rest of the evening curled up in Bob’s lap.

The next day, Sally came by the house all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and marched back to the bedroom. Alice took the kids down to our daughter’s room.

By the time I got to my bedroom to refuse, Alice was naked, sitting up on the bed, on her wide-spread knees, with her hands behind her head, looking up.

"I…no. I can’t. Look, I’m sorry, Sally, but this has to sto—"

"—What are you talking about?" My wife startled me from behind. I turned to face her, and my jaw dropped. She was naked, and in the process of locking our bedroom door. "Hang on a second." She went around me over to the bed, and pet Sally’s hair twice. Sally turned her eyes to Alice, and opened her mouth wide.

Alice reached up and began stuffing cloth into her friend’s mouth. Cloth that I recognized as being the panties I watched her put on as she was getting dressed that morning. When she finished, she nudged Sally’s mouth closed, and turned to face me. She glued herself to me, from knees to just below her breasts, sliding her thighs around me, wrapping herself around me, pulling my lower back into her, pressing her breasts up against me.

I protested. "Honey, this ca—"

"—Shh, shh." Her other hand came up to my lips, and she played with them, watching what her fingers were doing to my mouth. "You marvelous fool. Surely you don’t think that I got us involved with all this," and she nodded her head back toward the bed, "for the sake of that silly slut there, do you?" She grinned big, and poured herself into my mouth for long minutes.

I was gasping and out of breath when she released me. She slid down between me and the bed, opening my pants on the way, releasing the incessant rampaging erection I inevitably got when Sally came over. My wife applied her lips and her tongue and her mouth against me, and I had trouble standing.

I startled to feel myself getting poked in the ribs by something hard. Sally was prodding me with a cane, to get me to take it, nodding, poking, nodding, and when I did, she ran her fingers across her breasts twice, smiling around the gag in her mouth, and went back to her pose. Alice forced my cock further into her mouth than she ever had before. She gagged and I pulled out. She scooted back and leaned back up to the edge of the bed, and reached around behind me on the back of my legs, and pulled me forward, shuffling me along with my pants around my ankles, directing my cock back into her mouth, pulling harder as I proceeded to push myself into her face, her mouth, her throat, with the bed serving as a stop gap to keep her from pulling away. She had trapped herself from being able to get away from the advancement of my penis into her mouth, and I couldn’t help it, I began thrusting. She made little noises, and with one hand, pointed up and back behind her toward the woman on the bed.

I stood, and undulated until my hand drew back. Sally flinched after I swung and I had swung hard, and continuously had to re-upright herself back into position. I fucked my wife’s mouth while I waited for her to do that, time and time again. They both whimpered and cried their way through my efforts—both of them. Sally looked like a train wreck. I train wreck I had drug her through, screaming under her gag the entire time.

After I finished my burden, with all three of us gasping and groaning and moaning, I had to turn and yank my way out of my wife and sit on the bed. Alice followed me around, and went back to gagging herself on me, determined. When Sally—with tears still in her eyes—bent around to help my wife with what she was doing to me, holding her nose shut to get her to open her mouth wider, pushing her head down even harder onto me, forcing my wife’s mouth onto me, driving her to get me all the way back on up in there, with my beloved contracting her lips around the very root of my hardon, getting the back of her throat to pulse around me in ways I had never imagined, I had to lie down.

When I could lift my head again, after a mercifully endless moment in the sky, doing something I had always reserved for the privacy of me wife’s pussy or the quiet floor of the bathroom when I couldn’t sleep, the girls were sitting on either side of me, leaning over me, engaged with trading what they had gotten out of me, back and forth, back and forth between their mouths, giggling, petting each other, putting on a show. When I could get myself up on my elbows, they noticed and broke apart from each other, laughing, wiping their mouths, licking their fingers, trailing them through various wet spots on their own faces, feeding each other with what they got swiped up until they had nothing left to play with. Alice disappeared from my sight, and Sally helped me up to standing.

I was out of breath, and she was unbuttoning my shirt faster than I ever could, and, kneeling down, she fiddled around at my feet, pulling my pants the rest of the way off. "Sally, plea—"

"—Oh, no, hero. You’re not done, yet." She stood and danced her fingers up my entire body, stopping at various interesting places here and there, until she put her full hands on my shoulders, palms and all, and turned me back around to face the bed, where my wife was kneeling with her knees spread, her hands up behind her head, and the cane was in her mouth. "Her turn." Sally wrapped her arms around me from behind, and with one hand, she prompted my arm up towards my wife, and with the other, she reached down between my legs, and began doing what little she needed to do to get me ready.

I took the cane from my wife’s mouth, and Sally assumed her position between me and the bed, and, opening her mouth as wide as she could get it, set in on doing what she was there to do. Alice glanced down at her friend, and looked up to beam at me for a second or two before she turned to look up at the ceiling. I had nothing to say any kind of "no" towards this left in me. I held the rod with both hands and pulled back like I had a baseball bat in my hands, and I had good follow-through. We had forgotten to gag her, and she screamed. It took a matter of eight seconds for our daughter to start knocking on the door, asking if mommy was alright, and Sally scrambled up to don one of my wife’s robes, and, after mouthing a quick apology and blowing us a kiss, she left us to go take care of our daughters, traipsing them back down stairs, to talk about princesses.

Alice’s breasts were heaving, the ones with the welt I had just laid down on with one fell swoop, and she rasped out, "You can’t stop now. How old am I again?"

"Remarkably, thirty-nine. Just like Sally."

"I intend to be thirty-nine forever. My dearest husband: the scourging of our lord and savior is yours to deliver unto me. Every day, darling, from now on. Just like that one. Anything less doesn’t count."

I stood, and delivered. After the fourth stroke, it occurred to me that maybe I should gag her, for the sake of the kids. She was all too happy to have my underwear forced into her mouth as far as I could get it to go, and when I finished the obligation toward whatever god it was that demanded I perform this trust upon her, with her writhing and thrashing and crying and doing everything she could to keep her hands off her wounds the entire time, not to mention the liability I had towards the husbandly duty I owed her afterwards, somewhere in the middle of her glorious weepings and sounds that were happening for an altogether different reason than the one cane induced, one that was also not spoken of at polite dinner parties, I looked up to see Sally standing over us, dressed and smiling, and wishing us the best of luck from here, and reminding us to not be strangers and come by as often as we wished. We, of course, would have much more to talk about now. She offered to take our daughter for a sleepover, and I accepted. Alice nodded; her mouth was still quite full.

We had some catching up to do. It had been months since my wife’s birthday.

 

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