Friday, 26 March 2010

Hankering for a spanking - photo story

Photo story from Janus 34.

Hankering for a spanking
by Peter French

TRAGICALLY, there is a great cavity in Marianne Burnham's life. She is suffering from deprivation. What's missing is a man.

This is the first time she has been without a regular boyfriend since she was 16 – a totally unexpected situation, now dragging into its seventh week.

That does not mean however that Marianne intends to admit defeat. There's no way she is prepared to get left on the shelf or go without her required rations of loving. She's sure it's a momentary hiccup; she has every confidence in her attractiveness to the stronger sex and believes it can only be 'practically no time at all' before she makes the right connection. At the moment her evening alternate between going out and putting herself about, frankly hoping to hook an appropriate 'fella', and staying in at home on the offchance that that bastard, Neil Harvey, her schoolteacher ex-beau, will call to say that his defection was just a terrible mistake.

How could he walk out of her life after receiving that inky note with childishly rounded letters signed 'your ever-loving Nicola xxxx'? It made no sense that he should jeopardize his promising career – promotion to Deputy Head of Biology Department now a distinct possibility – to play around with one of his own pupils. Oh, she can imagine the temptation, but she can't understand why, if the worst came to the worst and he succumbed, he couldn't then two-time her, as she would have done him. How could he possibly have a proper relationship with a silly schoolgirl so much younger than him and still living with her parents? The idea is absurd, but why hasn't he come back to her yet? Does he really imagine that this Nicola Redway creature – oh yes, she'd wheedled the girl's name out of him, after discovering that pathetic schoolgirl-crush note in his sports jacket – does he really believe that she or any other girl for that matter is going to share the same peculiar tastes as him and be willing to put up with his kinky behaviour? She's pretty damn sure there aren't that many females that actually enjoy having their bottoms thoroughly smacked... as she does.

Marianne's love-hate for the vanished Neil Harvey has been simmering apace. And alongside it, her own natural vital urges. She never realised how much she actually needed it, until it was taken away. Just lately she has begun to entertain fears that she might even be a latent nymphomaniac, with a recurring sudden and acute need for a man. In her state of wound-up frustration that very word, 'man', causes her to feel a kind of aggrieved tingling. It's not fair...

But Marianne is not one to let misadventure get her down for long, even though her feelings illustrate the truth of that classic line about 'a woman spurned'. She despises wimps and weakness and will not tolerate it in herself. Tonight is one of those nights she's staying in at home in her comfortable one-bedroom flat, and she is going to do something naughty, man or no man. It's a little fantasy she's taken to indulging herself in, these last few weeks since Neil walked out on her. It's getting just a bit more elaborate each time she acts it out. Tonight, for example, she has gone to the very same lengths to prepare herself that she would go to for Neil. The whole rigmarole of bathing the body beautiful and then anointing it, labouring with love in the bathroom, for his enjoyment.

Indeed as she got ready she paused to smile at herself in the semi-misted mirror and whisper excitedly, secretly, 'Neil's coming tonight!' She wanted to look like a billion dollar dream for him, and then, when the temperature had hotted up, surrender herself to his dominant authority. That was ecstasy, letting go, feeling giddy with sexual desire, allowing him to take control of her, warning to be manipulated by him, craving the erotic sensations, mental and physical, that carried her away totally when he took over and she gave into him, taking beautiful pleasure in obeying him and delighting him with her ordered body movements. Standing in front of him in her bedroom, this room, wearing a nightdress and high heels, he much taller than her, in his street clothes, looking down at her, hands on hips, masterful. And she smiling nervously with yielding excitement into his eyes, knowing that she would do just whatever it was he wanted but hoping that it would be over the stool.

This stool upon which she is now sitting, on the soft velvet, the door locked but the phone still on the hook in case he should change his mind even at this late hour and call. Which would be divine of course, though she'd have to sound rather less hurt than she felt if she was to get him back again. If she could bring herself to be direct and honest she would no doubt say, in that funny little-girl voice she naturally used with him: 'Please come round now darling and spank my botty because I've been naughty. Please punish me for displeasing you and making you want to leave, however I did it, I don't understand. You can even cane me if you want to,' – a delicious thrill trembles through her body as she thinks this thought – 'but don't ignore me, don't neglect me, please.'

Marianne says these words out loud, alone, dressed up to the nines, rocking gently on her piano stool. Sitting three-quarters on to her dressing table mirror, her bright eyes flick across the far ceiling as she remembers with strong longing...

...kneeling on this very stool, nightdress pulled right up with no knickers on, her hands together on the shiny dressing table surface, bottom thrust right up and out on her master's orders, his right hand pressing on the small of her back, her head turned to watch, his active left hand raised high above her shoulder height. And then...

Smack!!! His palm cracking down onto her bare arched burn, splatting the left cheek, imparting a sting she really feels. Then its partner, hard on the right buttock: Smack!!!

Marianne may have let out a gasp. At any rate her lover says: 'Keep that backside up in the air! You've been very naughty this time, girl, and you're going to get a very sound spanking for it.'

'Yes I know Sir!' – such a ridiculous wimpette squeak.

Smack!!! across the left buttock. Smack!!! across the right. Crisp and sharp in a measured rhythm of ringing percussions. Marianne presses her knees together, hoping to protect her sensitive in-betweens from the fierce and spreading sting. But she also keeps her bared bottom tautly arched, because it's what he's ordered, yet any observant onlooker would notice those beautiful full moons not only impacting and wiggling but also thrusting and rising a little to greet eagerly each next explosive Smack!!! Her face turns to glimpse him in the mirror, she likes to watch him when he 'disciplines' her; a face softened by desire. Smack Smack Smack Smack Smack Smack!!!!!, across her whole bottom now, setting her self-treasured posterior smartingly ablaze. Marianne, making gorgeous little ohhs and oohs, twists and squirms but keeps her red and stinging bottom exquisitely arched as per her lover's command, whilst he burns up considerable energy spanking it hard and forcefully without any hint of restraint.

He is obviously a spanker born and bred, committed to thoroughgoing hurtful tenderizing of her admittedly provocative bottom, as a preliminary to heated sexual intercourse. This is no tepid fetishistic patting – it's hard, masculine, mercilessly assertive, taking her to her limits, delivered with a driving chastising force she finds highly erotic. And then, before she can come down to earth, he pulls the stool from under her and seating himself on it, draws her down across his lap, over which she flows like ink on paper: making her get right over and put her head down, her hands and high heels touching her own bedroom carpet on opposite sides of his knees. A classic posture, assured by the height of his legs and the very firm pressure he applies to the small of her back, her surrendered fulcrum point. Now there can be no escaping him. Even if she wanted to, she'd be quite unable, thanks to her immobilized posture; she knows it isn't even worth struggling, though she may not be able to help doing that once the spanking gets underway again.

And then, just as if she'd been a naughty girl – indeed, telling her that she has been, and reassuring her that 'We're going to spank that nonsense out of you, I can assure you, Marianne Burnham!' as if she actually were a schoolgirl back in the bad old days when male teachers could punish them at will – Neil Harvey recommences his girlfriend's bare bottom-spanking. He's now smacking her buttocks hard, hard and resoundingly, perfectly hard enough for it to be a genuine punishment and not a love-act, but Marianne interprets it as the latter. She has no choice. Her own body, with its needs, its feelings, and its unstoppable reactions to the relentlessly intensifying scorching afflicting her nether globes, has taken over, leaving her without a scrap of mental space to calculate her response. To the multiplying, all-embracing 'tongues of flame' licking the whole focal area of her flesh Marianne can only respond in one way. Her response in turn can only be described as primal – and ultra-feminine. She really doesn't know whether she's crying or laughing or peaking, it seems like all three at once; she only knows that she loves Neil Harvey, she loves him for introducing her to spanking, and she loves him for doing what he's doing to her right now, even if it makes her howl.....

* * *

The images, both visual and tactile, are so vivid, and her emotions so powerful as she sits in her elegant long black dress on the edge of her padded bedroom stool, her eyes closing and opening wide, almost unconsciously rubbing her bottom cheeks with both hands... gradually returning to herself as the living memory fades.

She feels a flash of guilt at this release of tension, and then a tender, throaty, welling sadness at the shock realisation that those wonderful unbelievable magic moments are to be no more. Her stark return to the present moment plunges her back into that void of emotional fragmentation with its draining pain. The closest she ever came to phoning the Samaritans was shortly after he left her, but she knew she wouldn't be able to explain quite how important, and unusual, the physical side of their relationship had been, even to an invisible, sympathetic voice. And in the cold light of realisation, before she has fully finished trembling, Marianne recognises that finding a replacement for Neil could prove impossible. If he didn't propose spanking, there'd be no point in her doing so, because she needs a man more experienced than her, more 'kinky', a man who takes the initiative at all times so that she can demurely and submissively yield to his overmastering desires.

The silent phone reproaches her. She's dressed to kill, or at very least to thrill, but she recoils from the idea of yet another evening wasted in some disco or wine bar faced with endless false alternatives: so many men wanting to go to bed with her, but only for the 'usual'. Certainly having no sense of her true needs, which she would blush more than red to confess to your average randy unattached stranger. She shudders at the prospect, and seeks solace in her own available and wanting mirror image. She hazes again and then she is imagining something that never actually happened with Neil, although he did promise or threaten her with it...

She's standing in her high heels, still in just the same 'feminine' pink nightie and nothing else, with legs together and bottom fully bared, bending forward in from of her dressing table, her fingertips resting nervously on the soft padded stool. The atmosphere is breathless and extremely heightened: Marianne can think of nothing but the fact that she is bending forward just like a schoolboy for a caning, with her bare bottom so intolerably exposed he might as well have ordered her to touch her toes. The submissive rapture of her humbled but glorious posture is complemented perfectly by her fear of the instrument her left-handed disciplinarian brandishes with cruel pride – she can see him in her dressing mirror. She knows the time has come for her to receive her first-ever real-life caning, and she's scared – in a way that she has never been before a hand-spanking.

'I warned you that if your behaviour didn't improve I would have to cane your bottom for you!' His imagined words ruffle her nerves, including those of her erogenous zones. 'I told you, girl, that unless I saw a considerable improvement in your performance – your sexual performance, the satisfaction you give me in bed – then I would have no alternative but to cane you. And now I am about to carry out that threat, with this extremely swishy, whippy cane, because I think that this severe punishment may do you some good. You'd better be prepared, because this cane of mine will make your bottom sting to blazes!' Marianne is swooning with excitement, all her senses swimming as her eyes are glued to the thin flexible wand rising in the mirror behind her...

Whipping her proffered bottom. Cracking across her sensitive, naked mounds! Burning them with the most incredible sensation. Making her shout out despite her dearest wish to remain quiet and conserve her evaporating dignity. The pain progressively etches itself into her quaking posteriors, searing and throbbing after the cane has been lifted off for the second stroke. The fantasy is so fantastically vivid and realistic, it's as if she can somehow watch herself from the outside being caned by Neil Harvey with his entire strength and at the same time be 'inside' her body in imagination, proudly keeping her legs straight, her knees together and her less-than-flameproof arse properly presented as instructed. Watching Neil Harvey raising his cane in the mirror, concentrating first on his face and then the flashing blurring wand whistling towards her bottom, Marianne feels the hunger of the damned, her hankering for corporal punishment intensified to a mind-blowing pitch matched only by that ferocious cracking flame... and vows, as her blazing stripes multiply, that she will belong to Neil Harvey, and Neil Harvey only, till the day she dies.

1 comment:

  1. Thank-you, Dimitry. Janus at its best, the words and images combining to give an incredible erotic charge.