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There is a little cottage with a thatched roof, nestled high on a hilltop in the Adirondacks. It stands forgotten, unoccupied for almost ten years. There is no electricity, no telephone, only a fireplace for heat and light. It is surrounded by trees, known only to the deer who sometimes graze on the grass that grows in front of it in summer.
Tomorrow he will find the cottage. He will drive by it in his jeep, nearly missing it in the midst of its foliage cover, but as fortune would have it, he will spy it in his rearview mirror after he has passed it up, and back up to have a closer look. It is as close to a perfect place as he could have imagined, perfect, that is, for the purpose he has in mind.
It is charming, it is picturesque, it is comfortable, but it is not for those qualities that he prizes the cottage. It is for its insularity, its seclusion, its seeming separation from real life. He wants to be able to forget the rest of the world, the troubles of his life and hers, when he brings her here, time and place suspended for the stolen hours they will spend playing and exploring.
He makes a few discreet inquiries, and for a ridiculously small sum, the cottage is his. A couple of weekends, a few cans of paint, some used furniture, and it is ready. He is going to surprise her, blindfold her and take her here some crisp autumn afternoon.. The few furtive hours they have had together have only whetted their appetites, teased them with the realization of what was possible, had they only the time and the place they needed. They had dreamed together of a private place, a place they could call their own, and here it was, almost as if it had been conjured for them.
Yes, they are lovers, but perhaps not of the kind you might suspect. Yes, they do make love in the traditional way, but only after she has been given the discipline she needs, and that he needs to give. And yes, for the kind of loving they indulge in, they need more privacy than that provided by an ordinary trysting place.
From now on she will get her spankings here. He can scold and berate her for her behavior, all traces of self-consciousness and inhibition vanquished by the sure knowledge that his words are unheard by all, save the one for whom they are intended. No more concern about who is listening through the paper- thin motel walls to the crack of the paddle and strap across her bare bottom, no more stifling of her cries and screams, no more muffling of her sobs in a pillow. He needs to hear her primal cries and her pleas for mercy as much as she needs to make them, unfettered by the fear that some Good Samaritan conventioneer in the adjoining room will misinterpret her passionate entreaties as a call for assistance. "Good girl," he will whisper huskily, when she gets to her knees in front of him, seeking redemption, tears streaming down her sweet face. How beautifully her red bottom, upturned as she kneels sucking his cock, will glow in the firelight as dusk falls. Not a sound will be heard except her murmurs of satisfaction as she swallows his warm cum, and his moans of arousal and, finally, satiation at her artistry.
And so it comes to pass one glorious golden autumn afternoon, just as he had planned. She rides next to him, joking about her "abduction" to a secret hideaway. He drinks in every detail of her face, stares at her voluptuous body unobserved, thankful that the blindfold she wears allows him this advantage. He wants to remember this moment for the rest of his life. She quiets as the jeep slows to a stop, twigs snapping beneath its wheels. He whisks the blindfold from her eyes and says, "Now, my love...take a look."
Anxiously he awaits her reaction as she blinks, her eyes refocusing to the sudden light. She looks at the little cottage for a long moment, then turns to him, brown eyes limpid with desire and adoration. "Take me," she says, placing both her hands in his.
And he knows exactly what she means.