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[Disclaimer, sung to the tune of "Hail to the Chief":
This is a story, it never really happened, There are no children, no rapists, no punishment, but, There is a man and a woman and a cabin, Spanking (consensual) and maybe some sex.
DLynn, unlicensed lyricist]
You think that I wouldn't?
I am already here.
The cabin was cold when I opened it, and I kept my parka on over my jeans as I built a fire. But it isn't cold now. After I showered, I put on a navy silk slip to comb my hair by the fire and think about you. And believe me, I am nothing but hot.
You're driving now, up the canyon into the mountains, the key and map I sent you on the seat next to you. Your voice on the telephone was so startled. "Hey...what is this?"
"Why, just what it looks like of course." I made my voice sound amused. I knew you would think I was joking. "Would I ever send anyone a fake key? Or lead someone all the way to a Colorado cabin just to surprise them with a man in a gorilla suit holding a bouquet of bananas?"
Your voice relaxed, sure I was joking, but there was a disappointment, too, a shadow of it as you said, "This is just more of your impudence and teasing, isn't it, brat?"
"You'll just have to show up on the sixteenth and find out," I sighed. We kept up the joke, as we always do, back and forth on the telphone and in the e-mail, you with your preposterous threats, me with my laughing impertinence. "See you tomorrow--if you dare," I wrote you yesterday morning. And you quickly sent back, "If _you_ dare, young lady! I know just what to do with outrageous brats." And at the end of your threats and growls, a little postscript: If only.
Now I lay down the comb and gather my knees to my chest as I look into the fire. What I see are not flames, but you, the man I've never met. You will walk toward the door, wondering if the key will even fit the lock, resigned that the whole jest will be over in moments, relieved that no one but you will ever know you were here--just in case I would be, too. But the key will slip easily into the lock.
When I hear it, I will rise to my feet and feel, even before the door opens, an uncertain chill. As the door swings, I'll back away, suddenly shy, until I feel the wooden walls touch my hands behind my back. In the small cabin, we are still very close. The silence between us is our first embrace.
I will feel so confused at the wonder and pleasure in your face that I will want to wrap my long hair around me like a veil, but that is not why I am here, waiting. So I will take a deep breath and keep my hands down, pressing them flat against the wall at my back. All I am wearing is that silk slip, and I slowly draw the sole of one bare foot up along the wall and wait for you to come closer.
You won't even stop to take off your jacket, just pull your gloves from your hands as you walk toward me. You'll blow on your palms and rub them together, afraid to make me cold, but I won't mind. Warm yourself on me.
Your first touch is so gentle, your hand cupping my face. I turn and kiss your palm, then rest one hand on your chest, not pushing you away, but joining us, there, where your heart is already pounding.
You'll lean closer, then, both your hands free now to wander, here and anywhere. As we draw together, my bent leg slips between you, and I feel your thighs close around mine. Your jeans are still cold from the winter air, and I can't help shiver, but this, too, I don't mind. Why wouldn't I want to tremble in your arms?
I can't keep my own hands still. I slip off your jacket, caress even the buttons on your shirt as I undo them one by one, and slowly move my hands over your chest and onto your shoulders. Your shirt falls away at my touch, and I watch the firelight flicker on your skin. Do you see the same dance on mine, that writhing of flame and shadow? Even as we look at each other, the flame, the shadow seems to rise to your eyes, and I know what you want.
What I want, too. You will be strong for me, you will love me the way you know I like, but you want me to invite you--and not with sweetness, softness, silk. I feel very small against your height and strength, but this moment is mine.
I raise one hand close to your face, then pull it sharply back, as if ready to slap you. I keep my eyes on your face, intent, and see you start, then steady yourself to look back at me, and I know what you think.
You think that I wouldn't.
I could. I could, even that, but instead, I suddenly wrap my hand around the back of your neck and I lunge. I nip at your throat, a sharp sound in mine, as fierce as I can make it.
It's all that you need. Your own yell is even fiercer as you wrap your arms around me and lift me right off my feet. I shriek, the alarm real, the excitement realer still as you turn, take a step to the bed and throw us both down together.
And we don't need words anymore, the weeks of verbal tease and struggle transformed now to gesture and act as we wrestle together on the bed. You have always let me play hard, and you let me now as I struggle to subdue you--any part of you!--and fail, blissfully fail.
The weight of you presses me into the bed and I can't move you. Not by strength. When I try to tickle you, you roll us onto our sides and slap my bottom sharply, a first playful spank, and I squirm against you. "Brute!" I kick against your shin, and you trap my leg with yours.
"Brat!" Your hand slaps down again and the heat that has been kindling all day in my mind blooms across my skin. I can feel every finger of your hand; it's not just the thinness of the silk, but the intimacy of this moment, that even through the rough denim makes plain every muscle in your leg locked over mine.
I can barely find a way to move against you, one arm beneath your neck, and my body pulled so close to yours that I can feel your chest hair tickle my nipples through the silk. They tighten in joy, and I know what to do. You raise your hand again, leaving my left hand free. My fingers find your own nipple--hard little nub, sharp little nails. I pinch.
Not hard, not anything like the spank that stings me now as you bring down your hand with an outraged yell. I squeal and press closer to you, but you take my wrists and pin me on my back. "You better start making your apologies," you warn.
"Make me." I mean it. I won't give you anything now unless you take it.
"Oh, believe me, I will." Your voice is as rich as if you were promising me ecstasy. And you are.
You let go of me, suddenly rising to your knees. I roll quickly, off the side of the bed, ready to run, but there is nowhere, of course, to run to, and no time anyway, because you have swung your own legs off the bed and caught me around my waist. You pull me across your lap, lifting my legs right off the floor, but letting my breasts and arms rest on the bed.
I feel sulky, sure that I will be able to push myself right off your lap, but your arm across my waist prevents me. I push harder, but, unbelievably, I can't do it, I cannot budge you, and your right hand sliding my slip to my waist suddenly feels more like menace than caress.
"Oh," you almost croon to me as your hand strokes circles from the small of my back to the tops of my thighs. "Such a bad, bad brat."
"Bastard!" I gasp back, amazed at the laughter and panic mingled in my voice.
Slap! "Language, darling." Slap! "And manners."
"Ow! Stop it!" I shriek as the slaps fall faster and harder. I cannot believe how uncompromising your hand feels. "You stop this right now!"
You spank me even harder. "See?" you sigh. "Not even a please." Slap, slap!
I am moving so wildly in every direction, my legs flailing, my hands pounding on the bed, that I cannot believe that nothing, nothing, nothing serves to evade the rush of blows across my bottom. You're not very gentle, I sing to myself, tears stinging my eyes. No, no, no, you're not.
I am singing aloud, too, all the ows and nos and pleases you like, but I will not chant I'm sorry. When you stop, with a last smack across the bottom of my behind, when you pull me up sitting on your lap, I still won't say it. I shake my hair back and ball my hands into fists. Then loosen them, and stare right into your eyes.
"I'm warning you. You've reached your limit. Just one more stunt, and it won't be my hand you feel on your ass."
You are so sweet, so dear to invite me like this, give me all this room to choose. My bottom stings and aches, but I keep right on staring, as arrogantly as I can manage. I touch my finger to the leather of your belt and smile in derision.
"You think that I won't?" you threaten.
I think that you will. But I want to make sure, and this time I do it, this time I slap you. Not soundlessly, and something moves through your eyes, something like commitment.
I am struggling one last time as you bring us to our feet, and then I can fall as freely over the edge of my fears as my body falls over your knee, your foot fixed to the frame of the bed. Now I cross my legs at the ankle, uncross them, curl and uncurl over you, as I hear you unsnap your belt. My head is tipped to the floor and now, at last, my hair makes a veil of its own accord, to hide my confusion, my panic, my pleasure.
And now the last music starts. No, please, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. No. Crack! No, you shouldn't have. Crack! But you did. I cry out more sharply than the belt swinging against me again. Crack! Please, it's too much, I sob, but the belt comes down again across me, so much sharper than I ever imagine, not just cozy heat and strength, but fire, pain, aggression, invasion. I am burning with it, to the ends of my fingertips hitting at your leg, to the ends of my hair dervishing the floor.
And most of all here, where I twist against your thigh, here the burning is beyond bearing, and the rhythmic crack of the belt beyond urgency. Even as you gather your strength to strike again, my body gathers and tightens, and the blow and the blooming rush to meet each other. My pleasure unfurls me like a flower.
You do not hit me again. Your hand between my legs and your arm beneath my breasts are gentle now, as they lift me to my feet. You hold me and I twine myself around you, my face wet against your chest, my lips wet around your leg.
There will be more wetness. There will be a rain of it--my tongue on you, yours on me, soaked crannies of mouth and cunt, sweat- slicked planes and hollows (yes, the hollow of your back will slip beneath my fingers) and you will drown me when you come.
I think that you will.
I can hear now the sound of tires on the gravel road that leads only to this cabin. I keep my place by the fire, but I strain to listen as the car drives closer and closer to where I wait. And in my eagerness, my straining, I can hear you, love, can hear you thinking, "She can't really be there. She just wouldn't do this."
But I would. I would.