By Samuel
Anna looked through the icy glass of her bedroom window. Outside the garden was quickly turning white. Snow filtered through the trees, ivory-coated branches crisscrossing into a ghostly spider net against the greylight sky. A single sparrow fluttered by, alighted on a frosted branch and flecked its wings in a silvery shudder.
Anna stared into the deepening white veils that covered the earth. Images of the night flickered through her imagination. His strong hands, the burnished wood of the brush, her cries,
his dark eyes, the reddened skin in the mirror, the stinging pain, the lips ….
With each image she felt vibrating within feelings that slipped from one emotion to the next. Regret moved to sorrow, coldness melted into warmth, pain became anger only to become contentment. And through the shifting sands of her soul her body ached with a burning she had never known. She sighed, attempting to break free from the clasp of the liquid pool of her own senses. Yet beneath these currents there was a feeling of peace, the undeniable knowing that she had found something she had never known before, a coming home, a rightness of what had happened.
She felt a chill, like the coolness she felt when Michael had touched her bruised and burning skin. She turned; it was but a draft sifting its way through the open bedroom door. She was alone in the house. Then for a moment the rightness turned into fear. A dark clamminess sent tremors through her being. She knew she must return to that place, that new home she had found. But the part of her personality that still stood intact was terrified that it was about to crumble and vanish forever.
With a fading sense of who she was, with a fear she may never return to whom she had been, she reached back into her memories of the night, letting go and slipping into mysterious hopes and reveries.
Michael silently approached. Their eyes locked for a moment. His eyes were brown, deep with both compassion and sternness, warmth and determination. He looked into her and she felt he saw the darkest secrets and shames of her life — that he knew her most private thoughts, of every longing she had forever kept quietly hidden. Her breathing was shallow on the edge of anticipation.
She looked down, unable to keep such a deep gaze, such penetration of who and what she was. He touched her chin and raised it. She felt a fluttering of uneasiness.
His fingers traced the line of her cheek, down her neck and to the top button of her dress. She had chosen a simple conservative dark brown print. Its smell was pleasant, almost woodsy, a scent of autumn leaves. It was a dress that she knew well and gave her a feeling of security.
Michael undid the top button of the dress. She felt the beating of her heart. The blood in her face rose. She could feel the thickening of her neck. Her limbs felt weak as though a gentle wind could brush her over.
Michael’s hands moved to the next button and then another. Anna felt the material on her shoulders and chest rustle, raising goose bumps down her shoulders and arms. The entire front of her dress opened revealing the brassier underneath. It was a one she had chosen especially for tonight. Her breasts were pleasant, not so overly large that she even needed to wear a bra. But this was a night of expectancy. She wore the bra as part of the ritual. Dressing in the knowledge she was to be undressed. She chose the garment for its texture, its touch, its strength and perfumed delicacy.
Michael moved his hand and spread the top of her dress, the widening V revealing her shoulders. He pulled the dress open and the top slipped down her back. She stood still, mesmerized by his insistent look, by the touch of his hands, by the growing sense of vulnerability. He bent down on one knee. And gently pulled the material of her dress exposing her abdomen. His lips gently pressed her belly. She breathed and felt her breasts push against her bra, the nipples aching from the friction as they rubbed across the fabric.
He pulled on the dress. She felt the gentle tug and the garment slid down round her legs. A chill danced across here arms and torso. With Michael s’ help she stepped out of the dress. She stood there frozen. This was her bedroom. A room of ten thousand nights, the very place that had born witness to a thousand hopes and dreams. There was not one crevice, one corner that was not imbued with its magic. But now this was real, fantasy was merging into hard reality
and Michael stood there, invited by her to enter this most private of places.
She watched his eyes scan her body. All she wore now were this bra, her panties and a pair of girlish white socks. Her bra felt odd now, somehow inappropriate, getting in the way. She stood there waiting. With his next gesture he reached around her. She leaned forward and as he pulled on the bra to release its clasp she pushed against it, pushing her chest forward, straining against the material. The clasp released and with a sense of relief the bra slid down her arms and fell to floor. She breathed deeply, freely, her breasts feeling natural and perhaps less erotic for a moment.
As Anna watched Michael look at her, the skin around her nipples tightened. She closed her eyes to feel the growing sensitivity of her breasts. He bent down on one knee again. She could feel the warm glow of his presence though he did not touch her. His fingers grazed the top line of her panties. He grasped the elastic band, pulled it outward and then down. Anna became suddenly aware of the heat and moisture between her legs as the cooler air rushed next to her pubis and between her legs. As she stepped out of the panties she could smell her own fragrance, her own dark odor. She breathed in the dank humid fragrance of her essence, reeling slightly, ever more intoxicated with her own sense of self.
Michael stood up and looked into her eyes. She was naked now except for the white socks. A girlish touch that made her feel younger, more innocent than she might be. She gazed back at him. Her nudity oddly made her less shy and more direct than before. Her complete openness gave her more a sense of who she was. And for that moment she was defiant.
It was a glint in her eye that he caught and understood.
He took her hand and held it for a moment. Her fingers were long, delicate and light, her palm covered with too many lines.
Still holding her hand Michael stepped past her. His sweater brushed against her breast. The roughness of the fabric sent an electricity through her entire body, settling first in her abdomen and then sinking into an untouchable spot inside her womb.
He led her to the edge of her bed. The very bed where she had slept so many times, a place where her hands gently massaged her own breasts, softly touched the edges of her vagina. Her bed was a place to explore the subtlest regions of her imagination, a place to dream and to desire. Her bed was the nest of her fantasies — of the hopes that life would lead her beyond conventional limits and fears.
Still holding her wrist Michael sat down on the bed. She was now taller than he. He pulled her toward himself. She wanted to resist, but his grip on her wrist was strong. He slowly, irrevocably forced her over his lap. She lay face down, her face buried for the moment in the comforter of her bed. It smelled gentle and familiar. Her hips and rear rested over his lap and her legs bent and dangling, her toes just touching the carpet. Across the room was a full-length mirror — the one she had spent so many hours of her life watching, examining, wondering who she was. Anna turned her head, freeing herself from the folds of the comforter and caught a glimpse of her self in the mirror lying on the bed. Her face was pale, mostly hidden by the rich streams of her dark brown hair.
To her side, on the bed, was her wooden hairbrush, black bristles with a wide, strong burnished back. She loved to brush her hair with it, to sit on this bed and look at herself in this mirror, freeing her hair of tangles, making it soft and shiny. So often as she brushed her hair, she fantasized what it would be like — the hairbrush slapping against soft flesh, imagining what the pain must be like.
Michael reached over her and picked up the brush. This was her first time, but now there was no turning back and the reality filled her with a gentle fear, real enough to be both dreadful and exciting. She knew now that Michael was looking at her bottom, the white skin on the back of her legs, the crack of her ass blending into the crevice of her labia and vagina. She clenched her buttocks together so as to hide herself.
Michael laid the back of the hairbrush on her bottom. It felt cold and steely. She looked at herself again in the mirror twisting her head slightly to see if she could see Michael or the hairbrush. But the sight lines of the reflections were beyond her view.
She saw her face suddenly wince in as she heard a slapping sound. And for that moment there was nothing — then a stinging pain in her right buttock and then another sound and the sting spread to the other cheek. Another sting and a third and a fourth. She watched her face tighten, her eyes narrow, as she tried to hold her breath. She heard herself gasp.
Michael tightened his grip on Anna’s waist. And with a strong swing of his arm he brought the hairbrush down on her bottom, ending each stroke with a powerful flick of his wrist increasing its speed at the last moment.
With each stroke Anna reflexively jerked on his lap. She alternately clenched and released her buttocks, the crack of her ass and vagina opening and closing as her legs kicked and thrashed at the air. With each slap of the hairbrush the skin whitened for a second, but quickly turned pink before deepening to a dark scarlet.
The pain was far more than she had expected. The strokes fell on places she could not imagine. On the top of her buttocks it cracked through thin layers of muscle — an intense thin sting. A slap to the middle of the buttocks was deeply resonant. The pain increased powerfully as the brush landed on the lower buttocks and excruciating as it seared the top of her thighs. The strokes that landed right on the crack of her ass provoked powerful thrusts deep into her rectum and genitals.
Anna’s breathing was fast. She thrashed about, arms flailing. Michael grabbed her right arm and pulled it behind her back, pinning her down and limiting her motion, as he beat her harder.
Anna wanted to cry out but all she could manage were stifled sobs. She reflexively bit into the comforter, the saliva in her mouth soaking the cloth. She could taste its course texture.
The stinging was becoming unbearable. Part of her resisted the beating, tried to fight it. But as the pain overwhelmed her, she began to sob more freely, tears welling in her eyes. She succumbed to a sweet writhing agony; a surrendering to the punishment that separated her from the pain. It was as though each blow pushed her further away — to a place that was simple and quiet. Even in that peaceful state though she could still hear herself crying, feel the power of her punishment.
The word punishment reverberated in her consciousness. She was being punished and as she opened freely to the chastisement there was no room for artifice — her tears were real, her cries authentic.
Anna felt the heat of the spanking spreading, from her buttocks, to her vagina. Her labia and clitoris was thick with pulsating blood. Never had she felt her genitals so gorged, so drunken with sensation. Her writhing and sobs were transformed, transcending to something else.
She heard Michael’s heavy breathing, as her kicks and bucking were now moving with the flow of her approaching orgasm. Her sexuality approached its climax only to subside, like a wave coming ever closer and then receding. Locked in their dance, Michael rained the hairbrush down on Anna’s red skin even harder. At last she fell over the edge, her body contorted, madly out of control. Orgasms followed on top of orgasm, waves flowing into each other, rippling together. Michael strained to control her, his powerful hand pinning her down. Her cries melted into a wail of unbearable pain and pleasure, mixed together so intensely that she felt as though she had moved into a sea of light, experiencing a tortured ecstasy that seemed to last for forever.
Michael continued to bring the hairbrush down on the back of her thighs. But as Anna returned to time, she could hardly feel it.
The spanking stopped. She lay there on his laps drenched in her sweat and passion, throbbing with a stinging pain. She breathed heavily, panting. Her heart pounded, trying to find its own quietude. She lay there beaten, yielding completely, and she felt totally free.
Anna was aware of Michael’s hand. It felt cool and delicate as it explored her burning skin. His fingers seemed so far away, as they moved between her legs to touch her everywhere. She did not resist or think anything of it.
She slipped off of Michael’s lap and fell to her knees. Her bottom burned, so much so that it was beyond what she might normally call pain. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her head in his lap to cry, to be held, to completely belong to another. She sobbed more from a sense of freedom and release than from pain. As she rubbed her face against Michael’s corduroy pants she could sense his own arousal and sexuality. She felt his hand pass through her hair.
Michael’s hand reached down beneath her chin and made her look up at him. She looked at Michael through the watery veil of her own tears, two narrow streams dribbling to the corners of her mouth. She could taste their saltiness.
Michael leaned over and placed his lips on hers. She felt the burr of his beard. She opened her mouth and leaned back. His tongue entered her mouth, course and thick, filling it so fully that for a moment it was difficult to breathe. His tongue had the same power of the hairbrush, forcing her to open and allow entry to something that was hidden.
Michael released her from his kiss. He lifted her by the arms awkwardly making her stand up. She stood now in front of him, so exposed that nothing more seemed to matter. He stood up, took her by the shoulders and led her over to the mirror. He made her look at herself next to him. She was naked except for the white socks. Her hair was disheveled falling over shoulders. Her eyes were red and teary. Her breasts seemed small. She felt tiny next to him.
He had her turn around to so that she could see her buttocks in the mirror. The center, fleshiest part of her ass was deep red. The red lightened and was splotchy near the top of her hips and her thighs. She was more embarrassed now than during the spanking. Her nakedness was humiliating. There was a sense of shame, knowing that Michael was looking at the red marks of her punishment, that he had administered the spanking, that he had made her cry so hard and had forced her to have orgasms beyond her control.
The redness of her skin seemed to radiate, an almost glowing luminescence. She wanted to be alone to examine it for herself. But Michael told her to get dressed.
As she bent down to collect her clothes she took a moment to secretly pass her hand over her buttocks. She felt the heated, roughened skin dotted with many small bumps. She eased her
hand down the roundness of ass to touch between her legs. She was wetter than she had ever known herself to be, the effusion running down her inner thighs. Her hand moved back to her buttocks. She could feel the flesh throbbing, pulsating, and as she moved her hand away she noticed even the air around her ass seemed warmer.
She slid into her panties, its elastic band rasping against the bruised skin. As the cloth of her underwear wrapped around her buttocks she felt an even more powerful heat — trapped within her clothes pushing the warmth and pain still deeper within herself. She stepped into her dress and pulled it back up over the rest of her body. She looked in the mirror. She saw her long, brown hair falling all about her, tangled and unkempt. Flinging her head back, she pulled her hands through the hair. She picked up her bra and placed it on the back of the chair.
In silence, they walked to the front door. They turned to look at each other. For Anna there was nothing to say. Michael’s eyes softened. He leaned over and with a gentle motion he whispered into her ear, “Your story has finally begun.” Anna looked at Michael, her eyes widening.
The door was shut, and Anna was alone in the house. She returned to the full-length mirror in the bedroom to lift her dress and pull down her panties to gaze on the softening soreness. The red was turning lighter, but there were other marks, dark purple bruises that were developing at the top of her thighs.
She prepared for bed. It was still early, but she wanted to collect the event, to savor its effect and memory. She found a flannel nightgown that reminded her of childhood. After undressing she put on the nightgown. She went to the bathroom to urinate. She lifted her nightgown and sat down on the toilet seat. The moment she felt the coldness of the plastic seat she could feel how delicate was her bottom, the pain of merely sitting. As the urine passed through her urethra she could feel a burning that mixed and then melted into a delicate stinging sexuality. The hurt made her feel so young.
She finished her toilette and returned to her bedroom. On the bed lay the hairbrush. She picked it up and returned to the mirror. She looked at the wooden handle, and rubbed its shiny surface. She pulled the brush through her hair, looking at how small she appeared in the nightgown. She came closer to the mirror. To look intently at Anna. The face of this girl who had just been spanked. She said to herself the word — spanking. Her eyes were pale blue, untroubled, shining with a simple serenity.
She got into her bed, pulled the comforter over her and held a pillow to her breasts, alone now to remember the pain, the intensity of her orgasm. The moist slipperiness between her legs moved, and as she pressed harder against the pillow she drifted off to sleep.
When she opened her eyes, a muted sunlight filled the room. It was morning. A night of deep and silent sleep, the softest she had ever known. She sat up looked out the window. Snow was quickly covering the garden lacing the garage roof with a delicate frosting.
She moved to get out of her bed. Her legs felt stiff and she remembered the spanking. She closed her eyes to imagine Michael. She felt a closeness, a feeling that there was someone who knew her now more completely than she knew herself. She rose, moved to the mirror and lifted her flannel nightgown. The reflection of her buttocks in the mirror showed that her skin was again pure white, but marked with three of four splotches of dark purple. She moved her hand over the white and colored flesh. She felt younger, freer, more open.
She sat down in the large rocking chair to look at the snow falling in the garden. It hurt to sit, so she curled her feet underneath her legs. She looked at her hand and studied it. Her fingers were indeed long and delicate, the narrow palm filled with many crisscrossing lines. When she had first met Michael he had noticed her hand. Michael had been introduced to her at the party. They had shook hands. But instead of letting go, he had held her hand a moment too long. He had then turned her hand over and looked at her palm. She could remember how his hand had seemed big and rough. His eyes had narrowed as he continued to examine her palm.
Then he had lifted his gaze to look directly at her. His voice was direct, just as if were stating a simple fact. So many lines in one so young and beautiful. You have so many stories yet to live, so many tales you will have to tell.
Anna had been surprised. Was it a just clever pickup line? But his eyes were so honest, so compassionate. There was no falsity in the tone of his voice. It was as though he did know her future. And now she wondered whether indeed last night was the beginning. Was this one of the stories she was to live. What tales would she have to tell? What would come next? And who was Michael. Was he to be her lover, her tormentor, her savior?
A shadow moved through the snow behind the trees. A deer emerged through the white flakes. How odd she thought, rarely would the animals in this area come so close to the houses. Maybe it had lost its direction in the snow. It wasn’t full-grown. Probably a young adult, born in the spring. It was by itself, lost from the herd, adrift, trying to find its way back to its family — its home. Its body was gray, on long spindly legs, a white tail. It turned its head and seemed to look directly at Anna — soft, beautiful black eyes, wide open.
Then its head shifted, its strong neck winding around and it leaped back into the woods disappearing behind the thickening curtains of snow.