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S & M

By Samuel

S and M. These initials, emblematic of their nomme de plumes, were a calculated choice. Simple in their design and elegant of voice, it allowed both reader and writer to choose at any moment whether tales told was of person or not. For a single letter can represent a thousand words — much as a single picture from another angle is also worth a thousand words. So the letters could be themselves or not. The beauty of it all is that the choosing of the letter’s meaning is dependent on nothing more than whim or mood, a time in one’s personal history, or a simple reflection of present past. The tales could be read — and re-read — and as all stories are, be seen from completely different perspectives — at times simply a tale, a childhood fable of distant lands and people — princes and princesses, castles and palaces, or it could be seen as the most striking of autobiographies; or better yet prophecy — a future forward of a most intimate sharing of delicacy and hurt. The irony that the two names reduced to S and M was not lost on either. For who they were, was well known to both, and a single letter was as much truth as metaphor — an endless mirror in which to see each, the other, and the self.

M stood before S as he sat on the bed. The electrical charge between them filled the room, an anticipation that raised goose-bumps on M’s arms and legs. It had been her birthday dinner — seafood by candlelight with a creamy Chardonnay followed by the softest of red wines. The two glasses of wine had been just enough make her feel warm and open, a dreamy presence in which to sift through her thoughts. Was this real? They had met by accident — a year of correspondence, a year of hints and innuendo, hesitancy and anticipation — and now this dinner, her birthday. And yes, it was she who had suggested slyly, softly, that they go to her room. Sam had brought with him a small black leather satchel. When they left the table, he picked it up. She didn’t dare ask what was in it — letters, simple papers from his work, letters to other lovers. It seemed so dark and mysterious. No, they were not to make love, at least not in the traditional sense. It was just that S had promised her a long, long time ago that he would like to give her a birthday spanking. It had been said lightly, in jest — or so she thought. And yet now she stood before him as he sat on the bed. The leather satchel on the floor propped against the sideboard of the bed.

S felt a quiet peacefulness, and with it an inner strength that came from the intensity of the moment. He looked up at M. The cascade of red hair was a sunlit halo around her face, iridescent in the light as only red hair can be, tawny reds shifting into shades of gold, orange and brown. S was so taken at this first dinner, this first encounter, by how easily she laughed, how much she seemed to enjoy her life. But now she seemed gently resigned, her eyes cast down, her face a pale white. S thought to himself as he studied her features that the alabaster whiteness of her skin was not the white of weakness, but of purity — that despite their frank conversations about sexuality and spanking there was innocence to M.

S noticed how slender she appeared, almost childlike in presence. Over the months of correspondence she had always spoken of her running, how much she enjoyed it, how racing along the beach at sunset watching the evolution of sky and clouds — blues to violets, reds to grays — was her sanctuary, a place to dream her dreams, to watch as the daily frustrations of un-valiant people, too much work, broken air conditions and such were transformed into fantasies of love and kindness, fulfillment and reward, and oddly … spanking — of friends or lovers who would hold her accountable, scold her and then spank her … hard, until she cried and could fall into their arms for comfort and kisses. The running had made her body trim, and this was the reality that S could not help but appreciate. She was of medium build and wore a simple white shirt that subtly emphasized her bust and jeans that fit tightly around her waist. The visual impact was effective — elegant, informal and sexy.

M felt S’s presence, sensing that he was scanning her physicality. She looked up and met his gaze. The silence was thick with meaning. Normally M loved the words of spanking. To her, a wordsmith by training and craft, she could become simply intoxicated by the language, the threats, the lecturing, the remonstrations — you have been a naughty girl, you are going to get a good spanking, you aren’t going to be able to sit for a week — ­and then the kind words of forgiveness — I love you, you’re a good girl, don’t do it again or you will be spanked. Since a child these simple words more than any other could make her swoon. While such words would run through her own mind solo, she most of all loved to hear others say the words, to threaten her, to scold her. She craved to hear these words said by her lovers when they made love. And then during a spanking to be scolded anew, for she needed both words and will to bend her soul, break her reticence, and release the soft contrition, for she was a child of language as much as she was of flesh. It was all part of her scene.

Yet now, here, in this room there with S sitting on the bed gazing up at her, there was no scene, only silence — no need to take on roles, to move to a different psychological place for the moment to be emotionally and physically effective. This was to be a real spanking — not for any fictitious made up offense, but simply because that was who she was. And S, whom she had never met before this evening knew that about her, understood the totality. That he was going to spank her… very hard. This she knew because she knew he knew… knew of what she was made and what she most desired. Because beyond all the images and words of playing the role of a girl who needed a spanking was a grown woman who craved something even deeper, an apotheosis beyond any limited fantasy, and this is what the silence addressed. It was within this silence that they held their gaze and it was far more intoxicating than any words or games or roles could ever be.

Without saying a word, S reached up to the belt on her jeans and unbuckled it. M looked down and watched his fingers moving. Months of email communication, furtive notes, intellectual and philosophic discussions had prepared her for this. There was no need to discuss the scene, safe words, how long or how hard. All the preliminary work had been done. In the past on such encounters with different woman, S knew he had been too careful, too gentle, based on first time experience, not knowing how far to go. Now he was confident, there would be no mistake what would occur. With the belt hanging loose, he undid the button of her jeans and pulled down the zipper. M was drunk with nervousness, the anticipation, a sense of dread … and all of it becoming in its own realm, a pleasure … that a man, she had barely met a few hours before in person, yet knew her so well through thousands of words, was undressing her and exposing her. And then her jeans were down around her feet. She slipped off her shoes and stepped out of pants. The white stockings on her feet matched the white panties and her shirt, making her seem younger still. S took her arm and pulled over his lap as he sat on the side of the bed. His raised his right knee slightly propping her bottom slightly higher than her back.

This was to be a birthday spanking first — not too hard, a simple ritual of recognition. He laid his palm on thin white cloth of her panties, feeling the muscular strength of her buttocks. He sensed the smell of the perfumed fabric as it stretched across the bulge of the lower part of her bottom.

And then he lifted his arm and lay down a first spank on the right cheek and then on the left. He stopped. She looked back up to him. Their eyes met — a deepening silence of expectation. And then he continued, one cheek after the other — one to ten — and then he stopped. M squirmed appreciatively. This was a gentle spanking, hardly any sting. Just a relaxing way of being subject, knowing her bottom was barely turning pink. With her pale skin and red hair, she knew all about the rose colored blossom that was could cover her posterior. She felt a warmth spreading through her loins. She moaned just a little.

And then S continued, one cheek after the other. He lost count somewhere after 20, 30 and close to 40 or beyond. He didn’t know nor did she. He stopped and M lay over his lap, enjoying how the warmth in her bottom mingled with the rich afterglow of the wine. She lifted her head and looked back to S, and smiled. But then saw something in his eye. He wasn’t smiling, he seemed stern. He felt him moving and reaching over the side of the bed. And he pulled something from the satchel, what looked like a long wooden spoon or ladle. It was maybe 14 or 15 inches, sporting at the end a thick wooden oval that was 3 inches long and at most and 1 ½ inches wide. Something in her froze. She knew what this was and how much this could hurt. Sam looked at her and saw the shift in her countenance.

The concern was real. Even in the silence she heard the words: “And now for your real spanking.” S reached over and pulled down her panties over her rounded buttocks and back over her thighs revealing the creamy rose of a bottom, just barely spanked. M turned back, preparing for the worst. But S was not done. He reached over the bed and pulled a pillow out from the coverlet. He placed it under her head. Though he said nothing, the instructions were clear. “I am going to spank you very hard, and if you are to cry, you will use this pillow, to bury your sounds.“ She looked again over to him and met his eyes, now cold, glinting with a hardness she did not recognize. She turned away. But the preparations were not done yet. She felt a warm flush on her bottom.

S was wetting her bottom with a wet wash cloth. M was surprised. Where did it come from? Then she remembered when they had first entered the room he had gone to the bathroom. She thought he was using the facilities, washing his hands. But no, he was wetting a terry cloth washcloth and had obviously hidden it when he reentered the room. At first it was, soothing and comforting, the wetness relieving the slight sting of her bottom sending chills up her spine as drops of water trickled between her thighs. But her stomach knotted. She knew too well how much more painful a wet bottom could feel like when spanked.

S reached back and picked up the wooden spoon. He knew what a wicked instrument of punishment a wooden spoon could be. Its smaller paddle size was misleading. It wielded far more force per square inch then a normal paddle or hairbrush. Thus each sting was quantifiably harder, more painful. The long handle increased the speed in which it impacted the flesh. Several quick strokes on the same spot in a row would be excruciating. And its small size required that each spanking took far longer to redden the entire bottom and thighs. Its compact size also allowed for fine work in the delicate spots inside the cheeks of the bottom and down the inner thighs. Yes, this was a most potent instrument.

S laid the spoon on her wet bottom for a moment. He lifted it back and with a hard flip of his arm smacked it dead center on M’s right cheek. Quickly on the other cheek. Back to the first cheek where he returned to the exact same spot 2, 3, 4, 5 times and then to the left cheek 2, 3, 4, 5 times. And every smack on the same spot escalated the pain. M couldn’t even accept, know, or acknowledge how much this hurt. Her wet bottom was more painful; but spanking the same spot over again was excruciating. But despite the pain she was determined not to lose her control.

S continued. M’s bottom was turning quickly into a blotchy map a red, white and pink. S moved over her smallish bottom covering every inch with the wooden spoon, insuring that it was reddened inch by inch — 2, 3, 4, 5 smacks at a times.

M was beginning to writhe, the pain was extraordinary. She breathed harder and harder, she buried her head in her pillow. Then she took her right hand and put in the air, a first step of protest.

S saw her hand almost spasmodically move from her side in the air in a vain attempt to protect herself. He quickly grabbed her wrist and then gently, so as not to hurt her arm, pulled it against the small of her back. To do so he stopped spanking for a moment. As he pressed the wrist into her back she reached forward, her fingers stretching until she was able to hold his wrist. And for a moment they held each other. M felt his strength, and S her weakness, her vulnerability, her trust in him, so that no matter how much she struggled he would pinion her there in that spot. And in that grip, hands on wrists, she had never felt so helpless and yet so cared for. And as she wondered about this trust, S picked up the wet cloth and dampened her red bottom that was glowing into deeper reds second by second. To M the wet cloth was now uncomfortable, her skin was almost numb from so much spanking, but somehow the water made each cell come back to life — wherever he placed the wet cloth it stung even more. And then S put down the cloth and picked up the spoon and spanked her again. The pain began again excruciating as before — 2, 3, 4, 5 times in the same spot, moving to another place, the rhythm was continuous, a slow crescendo of pain, her bottom was scorching. She struggled but S’s hand kept her firmly in place. Their hands moved and now they held each — palm to palm. She gripped his hand desperately; desperate that he hold her there, desperate so that she could finish being punished. And now through the pain, she forgot, forgot that she was not suppose to cry, suppose to please others, suppose to bear it all … and suddenly there were tears, real tears, tears she hadn’t felt since childhood. Somewhere on the pillow and down her cheeks there were tears, she was sobbing now, the tears flowing more and more.

And with the tears, M was at long last able to cry, cry for her lost lover, the betrayal, the indiscretion, the humiliations that went far beyond the body to the core of her soul and being. And then when she cried over that great loss, she cried for other loves lost and all the hurts, and the crying for each loss only escalated. And the cries became a great yearning. S beat her more furiously, beyond meaning or anything she could feel physically and yet she cried, and the crying went deeper, releasing, digging further into her past, her parents, abandonments, childhood hurts and losses and fears and all the cries became a final wail that reached the very throne of Heaven. And when S came to the realization that there were no more things for which to cry and that M was spent, he stopped. For M the storm was abruptly over, the thundering of wood against flesh. But a fire remained burning in her bottom and thighs. And in the sudden silence M could finally hear own sobs and gasps, her teeth biting hard into the pillow, her eyes closed.

Sam listened to her muffled cries. He first felt and then looked down to see how powerfully M still clenched his hand. And through her own softening sobs M also became aware of their hands, how desperately she still clasped his, their palms pressed together, fingers wrapped around each. She felt a bond, almost as though their fingers were leather straps that held them together. It was his clasp, this trusted bond, that allowed her to tolerate a spanking this hard, a punishment so complete, so cleansing. Slowly, she let each finger release one by one. And as Sam felt her fingers relaxing he let his grip soften until it was a most gentle touching, as if they were the tenderest of lovers. Finally their fingers slid apart, separated. M put her arm first by side and then to her face to feel her tears.

Sam put down the wooden spoon on the bed and breathed deeply, noticing his own mental and physical exhaustion. M’s bottom and the top of her thighs were a patchwork of dramatic colors — the white of her pale skin, the many shades of red and dark blue spots. He could feel the heat that her skin radiated. M was visibly shaking from her cries. He placed his hand gently on the skin noticing how warm and sweaty it felt.

For a moment the experience could become sexual. They were at that cusp. But S thought … no … not now, not yet. He pulled at the ends of her panties that had slid down to the knees. He gently pulled them up and lifted her hips to bring them up to cover her bottom. She sighed.

M felt the administrations of S’s hand exploring her sore bottom. She felt the gentle tug on her panties and when he pulled it up over her bottom how suddenly the heat of the spanking radiated inward becoming so much hotter, making her catch her breath. She felt another kind of heat in her loins.

Sam pulled her up; he knew that by pulling up her panties, he had made her his little girl, protecting privacy and intimacy. And with that protection, that little kindness, she was able to turn and curl into his arms, her face against his shirt and she was able to cry softly. S took her in his arms kissing her tangled hair. She felt so projected, so much who she wanted to be.

And then S helped her to stand up next to the bed. She gathered her jeans and she put her legs into them. As she pulled up the jeans, her bruised thighs and her bottom became even hotter, the energy forced back in to herself. She also could have chosen to make the feeling sexual, but this time she was content to be S’s little girl. And as she stood before him she finally looked up.

S looked into her eyes. And though she looked so serious, her eyes were clear, free and at peace. He took her hands in his. And as their fingers entwined, M knew that S and she were the deepest friends, for they knew the other from the inside out. And she knew that someday she’d punish him, as equally hard, as equally true.

For a moment there were just their eyes, two souls enraptured. It was Sam who finally broke the silence with the only words that mattered: “Happy Birthday.”

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