From: misslilyo@aol.com (MissLilyO)
Subject: Story:  THE PRESENT by MissLilyO (repost from last yr)M/F,sex
Date: 12 Dec 1996 17:16:40 GMT

Hi guys. I posted this holiday story a year ago and had kinda forgotten about it. While browsing through some older things, I found it, blew the dust off, and thought I might post it for those who have come to town since, and because it's a Christmas tale. The story contains accounts of M/f and M/F spankings, and some hanky panky to accompany one spanky, so if you're under 18 or think that's just awful, go Christmas caroling with the neighbors. If you kinda like that stuff, I hope you enjoy the story!
Love, Lily

The Present

Sabrina took a last look around her apartment, and was finally satisfied that it was perfect. Martha Stewart, eat your heart out. Her natural artistic gifts were very evident in the charm of her Christmas decorations. She had taken a Victorian look with lace and velvet and carried the theme cleverly throughout the place, and the results were worthy of slick-magazine coverage.

She had spent the early part of the evening vacuuming, scrubbing and polishing, till everything positively glowed. The lights were dimmed, the heady smells of Christmas candles and potpourri were on the air, and her tree added its own pungent spice.

She paid no less attention to her own appearance, taking a long bubblebath and using her most precious bath salts, leaving her skin glowing and soft with fragrance. She brushed her long dark hair till it gleamed and cascaded down her back in waves. A touch of lip gloss and mascara to highlight her lush lashes finished her makeup, and she dabbed her perfume behind her ears, in the crook of her elbows, and behind her knees. With a giggle, she added a touch to her bottom, just at the top of the dimpled cleft.

Her mirror assured her that she was at her very best as she pulled on white silk pajamas. Her slender figure was emphasized by the cling of the silk, nipples standing out clearly under the delicate fabric. He would come to her. Tonight she'd get what she'd asked for.

He was coming, she knew it, and she was finally satisfied that there'd be nothing amiss in the ambiance of the rooms which would greet him. She had spelled everything out in her letter, poured her deepest feelings out to him as he'd invited her to do, and she knew in her heart of hearts that tonight would be hers. He knew how to get in, and now she settled down to wait.

She allowed a pang of sorrow to take her for a moment as she reflected on what led her to be here in front of the old fashioned fireplace, waiting for her present.

Sabrina had been a happy, well-adjusted kid, lucky enough to be born to parents who loved her and loved each other. Both from their gene pool and the loving environment of their home, they gave her the self- confidence and strength of character that helped her through the tragedy of their loss when she was just 18, along with the fine-boned good looks that turned heads wherever she went. Now at 24, she was a successful artist with a growing ad agency and her work both earned her a good living and was a source of personal satisfaction to the young woman.

In nearly all aspects of her life, she was content, but for one. While she missed her mother terribly, it was her father's steady strength and guidance for which she most yearned. Her father had been a rock for her throughout her growing up years, dispensing wisdom and humor in great measure, and unyielding discipline when called for.

She pulled her knees up to her chin and sat on the burgundy tufted couch remembering the times when her father's dark brows would knit together as he frowned his disappointment over some misdeed or another. Always he'd listen gravely as she blurted out whatever mischief or disobedience she'd been involved in. Then he never failed to gather her into his arms and hug her closely, often shushing her tears of repentance as he comforted her. Always he thanked her for being such a good girl most of the time and for being brave enough to tell him that she'd done wrong.

With her arms around his neck, face buried in his big shoulder, he'd often carry her to her room or his den where he'd prepare her for her spanking. With Dad there was no last minute appeal, no wheedling or cajoling, that would stay his hand when he decided a spanking was in order.

He would stand Sabrina in front of him and unfasten her jeans or pull down her pajamas, then he'd gently pull her over his lap. "Lift up, Breezy," he tell her, and she'd lift her little bottom so that he could pull her cotton panties down to her knees. Her tears would begin even before he brought his big hand down on her upturned bottom. Each spanking was nothing if not thorough, and soon her cries turned to sobs and wails as she howled out her remorse for having disappointed her parents. When the spanking was done, he'd set her upright once more and hold her close, often sitting her on his knee, bottom stinging, panties still pulled down, and let her cry what was left of her tears into his chest. When she was calm, he'd help her with her clothes, take her by the hand to the bathroom and wash her face for her, smooth her hair, and assure her she was still his little bunny rabbit.

As Sabrina grew older, the times across her father's knee became less frequent, but on those occasions where he deemed it necessary, they were also more severe. She still squirmed as she remembered the blistering he'd given her at age 17 when she and Tommy Moran came in three hours late from a school basketball game. He'd used a ruler on her bare bottom and made her stand in the corner with her panties pulled down for half an hour before drawing her back for another spanking, this time bent across his desk, with his belt. She'd become a most conscientious young lady, never failing to call her parents if she was going to be late.

After she lost her mom and dad, she had somehow managed to pick up the pieces and carry on, finish school with the money they'd left her, and find a job right out of college. She had many friends, dated some although no one seriously at the moment, volunteered to teach art in an after school program for underprivileged kids, and in general led a happy life. The one thing she needed at some times, craved at others, was someone to take her in hand, when she felt things slipping out of control, and spank her. How easy life had been when her father had gently cleansed away all bad feelings about herself with a loving trip across his lap. The simple act of pulling down her panties and turning up her bare bottom had brought such relief to her heart and soul. How she wished for that now!

And that's what prompted her to write the letter. She had torn up 15 attempts before finding the words she wanted to say to this kindly man who personified the hope she'd been afraid to voice. At last, satisfied that she'd said it all as well as she knew how, she'd mailed it. Tonight was the night. She waited.

She was roused from a light sleep by the sound of him rustling around in the room, and was startled upright. Her momentary panic was soon soothed away by the kindness in his face and the reassurance she could read in his warm blue eyes.

"Now, now, dear," he told her, "everything's just fine. You are all ready for me, I see. Good girl."

He reached his hands down and pulled her to her feet, taking her place on the couch. She found herself standing before him just as she had her father on so many fondly-remembered occasions. She trembled now at the familiarity of the scene.

"Let's just pull down your pajamas, dear," he said to her kindly. He did not wait for her response, but reached up and tugged the silk pajama bottoms down. "Why don't you just step out of them, Breezy," he said. Her heart gave a lurch at the childhood nickname he'd used. Had she told him about that?

She had debated about wearing underpanties under the silk, and had ultimately opted not to, yet she found herself standing before him without embarrassment. She was a child again, filled with remorse, needing the expiation and release of the punishment she was about to receive. He took her icy hand in his warm one and drew her down across his knees, resting her torso comfortably on the couch and letting her bottom fit just so on his lap.

His warm hand smoothed the plump upturned cheeks, and he crooned soft words of encouragement to her as Sabrina started to cry. "There, there, dear. You know you must have your spanking, and then everything will be all right."

Sabrina was surprised at the sting when the first spank landed squarely in the middle of her bottom. She tried to remember if her earlier spankings had ignited such a fire. After a moment's pause, another smack hit her tender sit spot where thigh meets the swell of her left cheek. A matching stroke landed on the right. The spanking continued, covering every inch of her upturned globes with warmth. She cried and squirmed, surprised at the range of emotions which played out their melody in her heart. She was a child again, and all the pain she felt seemed to spill out as her tears soaked the cushions of her sofa. The firm pressure of the swelling of his body, however, had another effect on her as he spanked on. She was a woman, as well--a sometimes lonely woman whose most elemental needs were being met this night.

As she wiggled and squirmed on his lap, she was amazed to find herself growing ever more aroused. She could clearly smell the fragrance of that arousal among the aromas in the room, and she felt the dewy dampness spreading. Could he see? she fretted, as he continued raining the firm spanks on her naked buttocks. Twisting a little, she tried to look back over her shoulder to see how very red her poor little bottom was becoming, but he firmly pressed her shoulders back down, and she gave herself over to the spanking again.

At last, he sensed she had had enough and he helped her to her feet. Just as she'd hoped, he gathered her into his arms and embraced her warmly, eventually helping her to sit on his lap. She wept into the soft fabric of his shirt. He stroked her hair and murmured soft endearments to her, until her tears were spent. She pulled away from him and looked deeply into his gentle eyes for a long moment, and then slowly lowered her lips to his, kissing him sweetly. He responded and the kiss deepened, her lips soon opening to his questing tongue.

In a seamless segue, he began touching her swollen nipples through the silken fabric of her pajamas, and soon the material floated away from her to join the bottoms in a puddle on the floor. He moved her so that she was straddling him, facing him so that he could tongue her erect nipples. Her sensation of joy when she impaled herself on him was never sweeter, and together they joined in the ancient rhythms. At last the song was ended as they cried out their release in harmony, and they drifted down as the last notes were sounded.

"Did you like your present, little Sabrina?" he asked her after he had tucked her into her bed, fluffing her pillows and pulling the comforter up around her. He was ready to leave.

"OH YES!" she said, sleepy girl voice taking her over. "Thank you!"

"And thank you, my dear," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "I loved your letter. Be a good girl for me, promise?"

"I promise," she whispered. And then he was gone.

In the morning, she had awakened more rested and refreshed than in any time in recent memory, her body humming the tunes of the night before. Her lips turned up in a smile that would be the envy of any cheshire cat and she stretched lazily, realizing that she was still naked, which brought a blush to her pretty cheeks.

She got up and slipped on her fluffy terrycloth robe. Soon Danny would be over to take her to his parents' for Christmas dinner, so she decided she'd better get moving. She went to the living room to pick up her discarded pajamas, remembering again the wonderful spanking she'd received. And the something extra which had followed it. She spotted the envelope laying on the floor next to the fireplace. It was the letter she'd sent him. He must have dropped it last night.

Smiling, she picked it up and began reading the letter again, penned in her own flowery script:

"Dear Santa," it began.

MissLilyO@aol.com)