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Subject: "This Is How We Begin" (M/F, masturbation, spanking)
From: bookbabe@bigfoot.com (Michele )
Date: 3 Jan 1999 10:02:24 -0800

This Is How We Begin

copyright bookbabe@bigfoot.com. Do not repost or archive without permission of author.

* * *

We're in the car coming back from the restaurant, the car moving swiftly down the highway. It's still light outside-midsummer, the sun shining brightly.

I'm lying back on my seat, eyes closed, a little buzzed from the wine, listening to Marvin Gaye on the CD player. Now and then I feel your hand rub my leg or squeeze my thigh and I smile, eyes still closed.

"Hike up your dress and pull down your panties."

My eyes fly open and I turn and stare at you: "what?"

"That's five," you reply, voice soft.

Five with the belt you bought especially for this weekend.

I feel my stomach tighten and I know I should do as I'm told, but still I hestitate: "I . . . Jess . . ."

"That's ten."

Staring straight ahead so I can ignore the traffic on my right, I quickly hitch up my dress, bunching it at my waist. Raising my ass I slide my panties past my hips, thumbs hooked in the waistband, then push them down my legs, hands shaking. Face hot and red. Cunt pulsing.

I move to kick the panties off my feet but you order, "leave them at your ankles."

"Spread your legs as wide as you can."

At my mortified moan you casually continue, "that's fifteen, Michele."

I can't spread my legs very wide; the panties limit my movement, but I force my knees and thighs as far apart as I can. My cunt smells very sweet in the close space of the car.

"Now rub your clit. Rub it until we get back to the hotel. But don't cum."

I lean my head back and close my eyes and the rest of the world falls away. I can pretend that no cars drive by us, that no one may be able to see inside our car and catch a fleeting glimpse of my bush, pale splayed legs, and moving hand.

You turn off the stereo and the sounds of my breathing and the sticky movements of my fingers seem very loud. I know I shouldn't cum, know that you will make my punishment worse, but I can't help rubbing my clit the way I like best. I squeeze it between my index and middle finger, rocking it in a circular motion, stopping now and then to clench my fist and grind against it.

And as my desire spirals higher and higher I think that I would do anything for you right now, if you asked. I would bare myself in public. I would suck you off in the car. No shame. No fear. Only the desire to please you.

And oh, I want to climax- I'm aroused by my exposure, by the ache in my spread thighs, by the test you've given me. So when your fingers brush against my cunt, seeking out my wetness and heat, I arch against them and cum, cunt spasming over and over.

Your finger presses against my mouth and I open my lips and suckle, tasting myself.

"That's twenty-five, honey," you whisper, pulling your finger from my sucking mouth. And of course what you're promising me is 50 strokes with the belt, twenty five on each cheek.

You do not tell me to pull up my panties or fix my dress to cover my exposed sex, so I do not ask permission, and the last five minutes until we reach the hotel seem very long, and there's no desire to mitigate the shame and exposure I feel. I want so much to hide my nakedness, but my desire to please and obey you are stronger.

When we arrive at the hotel the sun has begun to set, but it's still fairly bright out. Pulling into the parking lot you drive to its remotest corner, where we are fairly isolated, no other cars around us.

I wait for you to open my door for me, and as you do, I reach down to pull up my panties. "Leave them around your ankles, Michele." I can hear amusement in your voice, amusement at my predicament, amusement at the feeling of rebellion you know I'm trying to quell.

But I obey you, stumbling awkwardly out of the car, dress still hiked around my waist, panties loosely binding my ankles. I say a silent prayer of gratitude that this corner of the parking lot is deserted, no cars or people within sight.

"Bend over the hood, honey." Even as I obey, a soft, continuous moaning sound escapes me. "Not here. Not here," I think to myself. But I stretch my hands across the hood, the metal warm against my arms, hard beneath my breasts. My face rests against my forearm.

The setting sun seems very hot against my exposed ass, bright even against my clenched eyes as I wait. One of your feet gently urges mine to spread a little wider, until the panties permit no further movement.

And I wait.

Now your hands are on my ass, cupping my cheeks, kneading them, pulling them apart to expose my anus and I'm rocking into them. "Still, now. Be still." I hold my position, softly moaning.

And I wait.

I hear the thin, whippy sound of a belt being pulled from pant loops and my hands tighten into fists. "Oh, now." I whisper. "Please, now."

"You'll take the first five out here, Michele."

I sob.

The belt comes down hard like I knew it would, a thin band of pain high on my right cheek that spreads across my skin. And just as quickly you stripe my left cheek, the belt licking at my skin like a lover's kiss. That's one.

Number two dances across first my left thigh, then my right, very quickly, so that both legs burn in tandem. I can't resist a hiss and a wiggle, but a warning flick of the belt against my cunt reminds me to hold position.

You make me wait a little for number three, give me time to remember where we are, time for panic and shame to flood me, until I can feel my stomach tighten and legs threaten to buckle. And just when I think I'm ready to sink to my knees, the belt strikes hard and fast twice in the same place, squarely across the cleft, catching both of my cheeks.

It's all I can do not to cry out; I'm biting the inside of my cheek and clenching my hands into fists. My whole body feels rigid. With a gentle hand you rub my bottom, fingernails scratching lightly at a welt: "relax your cheeks, unless you'd like another five added on."

With a long exhalation I will my body to soften, feel the muscles in my thighs and ass loosen.

"Good girl, honey, just two more to go. While we're outside, that is."

My punishment would be easier if I were across your lap or lying on the bed. I could clench your leg or hug a pillow, but right now there's no softness or human touch to mediate the pain- only the hard warmth of the car digging into my stomach and breasts. I wish we were back in our hotel room right now.

Number four catches me on the underswell of each cheek and the pain is a sweet shock to me, goes humming and burrowing through me, finding new nerve endings to torment. "One more . . . just one more," I mutter, still holding my position.

"Reach back and spread your cheeks for me, honey." Your voice is soft but I hear you very clearly.

"I'm sorry?" I reply, pretending confusion.

You give me two hard licks on the swell of each cheek. "You heard me the first time, Michele. Spread your cheeks. Now."

With a fearful shudder I reach backwards, my fingers digging into the softness of my ass and easing my cheeks apart. I'm amazed by the heat emanating from my skin. The faint night breeze tickles my anus.

"Wider."

"No . . . oh no . . ." I whimper, but I obey, spreading my cheeks as far apart as I can, feeling shamed and exposed, slutty and afraid, and so aroused my teeth have begun to chatter and goosebumps have risen on my arms.

And the belt flashes down, licking along the cleft of my ass and kissing my anus. I clench against the pain, my hips rocking uncontrollably, but my hands keep my bottom spread wide for you.

"That's my girl." Your praise makes me strong and as the belt whips down for the last time I arch my ass, offering myself to you, drinking in the heat and sting as the belt flicks against the burning skin of my anus again.

As I rest against the car, hands still holding my ass spread, you put your belt back on, then tell me, "hands on the hood." Your fingers trace the marks my fingers have left in my skin.

Crouching at my feet you deftly pull my panties up my legs, dragging them slowly over my reddened ass. A quick tug and the hem of my dress falls into place.

With your hands on my shoulders you turn me to you and I smile into your face, knowing that I must look a mess- hair askew, makeup smeared.

"We're not done yet, Michele," you remind me and my stomach and cunt clench in unison. I know. I know.

With your hand gripping my forearm you march me toward the hotel. My dress is wrinkled, my hair hangs in my eyes, and surely mascara and eyeliner have streaked onto my face. When we walk into the hotel, people will stare at us. They will see my downcast eyes, your hand on my arm, my wrinkled skirt. And they will know. They will see my shame and need and know that you will spank me again, when we reach our room.

I want them to see. I want them to know.

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