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IN THE LAP OF THE NIGHT I arrive in the dark for the first time, my first time, to your place where the basement window spills light across the lawn as I step across the flagstones, hear your voice and footsteps and see your shadow evolve from the darkness. Shaking with fear or excitement, I cannot tell but all senses hang in the air as we move inside together, I, conscious of you behind me, already beginning to warm to the adventure before us. Wine casts a glow in the tasteful comfort of your space as I sit tentatively on the couch, conscious of the heat of my bottom, my cheeks tightening and loosening in anticipation, while I pinch my arm lightly for assurance of reality. First the preliminaries of a safe word and then you lay out before me your finest handmade equipment, tried and tested for the event at hand, so I may touch, feel, know, to begin to anticipate to tremble to flush with desire. The curvaceous cool wood of the brush lies beside the one I fear most, your favourite, this thin white flexible reed cane, and I am not sure I could ever ask to taste it across my naked bottom, cannot imagine that I could ever desire it, or endure it, so I turn my attention to a leather paddle, a tawse and strap, imagining the sensation in all the terror of the unknown. You tell me about noise and sound, of a bark worse than bite. I am sceptical but the wine runs to my toes and takes the edge off my fear. You seem relaxed, unhurried, without urgency or pressure, assuring me that I may do nothing or do everything, the call is mine. But my curiosity, my years of longing to explore this forbidden need demands satiation and when you seat yourself on that chair in that purposeful way and beckon me over, I do not hesitate for a second. Standing beside you in that one last moment of innocence I feel like some virgin of ancient times engaging in willing sacrifice for your pleasure and, if the gods are willing, for mine. I bend over your lap, my hands and head draped towards the floor, looking under the chair to the sight of my feet and legs on the other side, my toes barely touching the carpet. Your hand caresses then lightly spanks the thin fabric of my skirt stretched across my ass. Gently my skirt is raised to my waist, my panties stroked, spanked lightly, then slipped down to my thighs, and I'm aware that I have never been so exposed, so open to scrutiny. In this moment there is nothing left to hide. You begin to spank me, one cheek, then the other, slowly, then quickening, I feel the sting rising, spreading and I begin to squirm and wriggle, my hands clutching the chair legs, while remaining conscious of a determination not to flinch away to hold this bare bottom of mine up high to receive your well deserved admonishments, as you softly lecture me on my naughtiness, and I gratefully receive that which I surely have merited. Who in my life would imagine me in such a position? Not anyone who knows me, for I am a strong, assertive, confident feminist who allows no man to command me. What brings me here? From where does this dark desire originate, spring from, derive sustenance? This need, this fantasy which I have never before whispered to any soul and barely dared to hint at in the safety of my journal, except now to this stranger, of whom I know little, and yet here I lie at his complete mercy. Perhaps this is what makes it safe, to act out a fantasy in an unknown space with an unknown man to be without judgement, without condemnation without guilt, and to allow myself to be complimented for such courage, to be able to acknowledge this need, which I have wanted, and dreamed about most of my adult life. Years of masturbating in the dark, imagining the sting of a hand, or the thrash of leather across my backside as I thrust towards orgasm, feeling shame at this terrible desire, searching my soul for the seed which rooted this lust within me. There are no answers. In copulation with my once-husband I would venture into such fantasy, silenced by the humiliation of confessing such a need, yet requiring these thoughts to bring me to ecstasy as I heard and felt the spank, spank, spank thwapping against my bared bottom thrust up for the pleasure of an unknown hand, while chastising myself for being so kinky, so abnormal. Wanting to confess to some counsellor, but never daring, always pushing it into the dark corners. Our night goes on, into the small hours from knee to stool and back to knee, from hand, to leather, to wood, as I gasp at the hurt my breath only stopping at the moment I catch sight of the cane in your hand and I try not to resist, to relax, as you test me in a firm application, surprising my buttocks with a tingling, stinging pleasure, enough to know I need not fear it. Between the sets, you caress my crimson cheeks, softly and gently, then you bring me up to sit on your knee to hold me in some state of comfort and it feels good, feels reassuring, feels safe, yet I resist your kisses on my lips I cannot get this close, don't ask me for this intimacy. We move to the couch to sip wine, to talk, to move around, I look at your paintings, your work, and gaze at my blazing cheeks in your mirror as if I have now received my wings in some mark of honour. I express my desire to watch you work at this art of spanking my bottom, to see myself in voluntary surrender, my bare bottom reddening from your expert hand as I feel the pain, the sting, the pleasure, to watch you touch my tender sex, to caress that place which grants me pleasure. On this first occasion I do not come to your touch or the slap of your hand or other some other utensil, but the orgasm which eludes me lies promising in a wave beyond the shoreline which surely will come as a tsunami on another night, perhaps on the edge of some other yet untried instrument waiting to be flexed| in such a way to leave me exhausted on the shore. A long night, a good night and you stop just when I begin to know that I want more, but you resist applying too much hurt on my first time out, so we part with a hug and smile, as I waltz my still dancing scarlet cheeks home to my bed, this rear of mine glowing secretly under the covers, under my clothing, attesting to this private act, unspoken of in the brilliance of the day, in the corridors of my normal life. Only you and I know of this. © Joan Arc |