Subject: "Meeting Point" (M/F)
From: bookbabe@bigfoot.com (Michele)
Date: 1998/05/08
"God or whatever means the Good Be praised that time can stop like this, That what the heart has understood Can verify in the body's peace God or whatever means the good."
-- Louis MacNeice, "Meeting Point"
* * *
We are in a cab, on our way to a restaurant. One of your arms is draped across the back of the seat, resting lightly on my shoulders, while your free hand rubs lightly against my thigh.
As we talk, your hand slowly eases the hem of my dress upward, gradually exposing my leg. At first I enjoy this caress, but as my thigh comes into view, I squirm a little in embarrassment.
"Jess," I mutter softly, "the cabdriver." I try to push your hand away, but you are adamant, and continue to push the hem higher, until my panties are exposed.
"Jess!" My voice is strangled and outraged as I feel your fingers slide between my exposed thighs to squeeze my sex through my panties.
"I told you not to wear panties." Your voice is quiet and even, but I quiver a little.
"But my dress is sheer. I can't go without panties. And besides, I didn't think you were serious." I struggle to keep defensiveness from my voice and am dismayed to find that I have failed.
"You didn't think I was serious? I'm always serious, Michele." You continue to caress my pussy, your fingers pressing against my mons.
Removing your arm from my shoulders, you grasp my chin and give me a soft, lingering kiss. "Later, I'll show you just how serious I am."
I make a little questioning sound, even though deep down I understand the implication of your words.
You kiss me again. "I'm going to spank you, honey. Spank you so long and so hard that you'll never question my seriousness again." Giving my thigh a sharp swat, you lower the hem of my dress just as the cab pulls up to the restaurant.
All throughout dinner I find myself distracted. I can't follow our conversation and my appetite seems to have disappeared. You seem amused by my discomfiture, smiling at me.
"What's wrong, Michele?" you ask, already knowing the answer.
Nervously I take a small sip of wine, then blurt out, "you're not really going to spank me, are you, Jess?" My hand is shaking, and I put down the wine glass before it spills.
Taking my hand in yours, you give it a squeeze, then begin to stroke my palm with your thumb. "Yes, sweetheart, I'm going to spank you. You're going to lie across my lap. I'll pull up the hem of your dress, and pull down those panties I told you not to wear. Then I'll spank your bottom, first with my hand. This hand," you emphasize with a gentle squeeze.
"And when your bottom is nice and pink, and you're wriggling on my lap, I'm going to strap you for a while, then paddle your ass until it's very sore. Maybe you'll cry." Your eyes light up at this thought. "I do know that after I'm finished with you, Michele, you'll think twice about ever disobeying me again."
A strangled groan of protest escapes my lips. I feel mortified by your words, but deeply aroused, too. My belly and sex clench, and my face grows hot. I look up at you, trying to give an appearance of nonchalance, but I fail utterly, and my eyes fall under the steadiness of your gaze.
The trip back to the hotel passes in a blur. I can't enjoy the scenery. All I can think about is my impending punishment.
We walk through the lobby of hotel, your arm guiding me toward the elevator. I'm sure that my face is flushed and that my nervousness and excitement are evident to anyone who watches us. The bell boy. The desk clerk. Guests in the lobby. Surely all these people know that in a few minutes you will pull me across your lap, pull down my panties and spank me. I keep my eyes lowered.
All too quickly we are back in our hotel room. You flick on a lamp, and a soft glow lights the room. I hesitate by the door, unwilling to move further into the room. There's a big lump in my throat and my legs are weak. I don't know what to do.
You shrug off your jacket and drape it across a chair, then sit on the bed. "Come here, Michele. It's time for your spanking." You reach out your hand to me.
I swear that I want to obey, but my legs feel rooted to the floor. My brain keeps telling my feet to move, but my muscles seem to have stopped working. I'd explain all of this to you, but I can't seem to open my mouth. Jesus. What a predicament.
Your face darkens a bit. "Michele, don't make me come and get you."
"Please, Jess. Please don't spank me." Is that my voice, so trembling and pleading? I don't recognize it.
"Michele, get over here. Now." Your voice is very calm and controlled, but it scares me a little. You sound so implacable. Maybe your control itself is what makes me nervous.
Somehow I manage to edge across the room, until I am standing in front of you, my eyes downcast, arms crossed protectively across my breasts.
You reach up and grasp my arm, pulling me across your lap. I land with a soft "oof," my torso supported by the bed. I bury my head in my arms, shaking.
For a few moments you play with my position a bit, shifting my bottom and legs so I'm resting more comfortably across your knees. I feel your hand on my back, stroking me soothingly, then wandering down to my backside. You squeeze and rub my cheeks through my dress.
"Michele, do you know why I'm going to spank you?" Your voice is very soft and warm in the intimacy of the bedroom.
"B-b-because I wore panties underneath my dress tonight." I struggle to keep my voice calm and fail.
"No. That's not the reason at all, honey. Try again." You keep stroking my ass, and I arch into your hand.
I know the answer but I can't say the words.
"Michele, don't make your punishment worse. I brought the cane with me." You give my rump an admonitory spank.
Any mention of the cane is bound to ensure my obedience; you know how much I hate its bite. I sigh in resignation.
"You're going to spank me because I disobeyed you." I mutter these words into the bedspread, feeling my face flush with shame.
"That's right, sweetheart. You disobeyed me. Why?"
I have to think about the answer to this question, so I'm quiet for a moment, and you're content to give me a few moments to figure out my response. Your hand caresses my bottom, stroking, squeezing and kneading, and I'm alternately aroused, soothed and scared by your touch, and what it promises.
When the words come, they are slow and hesitant at first. "I felt embarassed by the idea of going without panties in that dress. It's very thin; people would have known."
My admission is met with silence. Clearly, it's not enough.
"Of course, I didn't have to wear that particular dress. You told me last week that I wasn't allowed to wear panties on our next date. So I could have chosen another dress, and obeyed you without embarrassing myself."
Now your hand is on my back, stroking me, settling me, urging me to continue, to confess, to be honest with you. Like a penitent in a confessional, I've come to you to admit my sin of pride.
"Obeying you is hard, Jess. Even the small stuff, like this. I wanted to show you that I don't have to obey you." My throat has gone a little dry, and the room seems suddenly hot and still. This is so hard to say to you.
You still haven't responded to my confession; clearly more is required. I'm so happy that I'm lying across your lap, my face buried in my arms, so that I don't have to look at you.
"Maybe I wanted to test you. To see how you would respond to my disobedience." It's very difficult saying these words, and I crave the release of your response, but you're still so damnably quiet. One last confession; we both know what it is.
"Maybe I wanted to goad you into spanking me. Maybe I wanted to make sure that you gave me a spanking, Jess. Because I need that from you." Hard as I try to control my voice, it trembles on the verge of tears. I hate appearing weak and needy in front of you.
With the hands that I love so much you turn me on your lap, so that I'm looking into your dear, understanding face. You smile down at me, and wipe away the tear that lies on my cheek. "You don't need to test me, Michele. You just need to trust me. To take care of you; to give you what you need, hmmn?"
Grasping your hand, I rub it gently against my face, feeling safe and loved. For a few moments we gaze at each other, the strength of our connection unmistakeable.
"Now kiss the hand that's going to spank you, sweetheart."
With a soft, anticipatory smile I obey, my lips brushing your palm, my tongue flickering against your fingers, knowing that in a few moments I will again be face down over your lap as you give me the punishment I need.