Subject: New Story: THE LOOK by MissLilyO (M/F, cons, sex)
From: (MissLilyO)
Date: 28 Jun 1997 23:52:28 -0700

The Look

Hi, gang. This story is focused on erotic spankings. Any 18 year old person or younger who ever reads the word erotic is in GREAT danger of having hair grow on the palms of the hands, so he or she should quickly get lost. Otherwise, if you think erotic spanking and sexual references are good stuff, stick around. Hope you like this one. Love, Lily

THE LOOK by MissLilyO

Languidly, he reached for his Olympus, the sleek camera feeling like an extension of his hand he had held it so often. Automatically he adjusted the settings for the bright rays of sunshine that tiger-striped the black comforter on the bed. He noted that it was the last shot on the roll.

"Is there a sunset anywhere in the world that glows more beautifully than a well-fucked woman?" he asked her.

Her reflection smiled at him as she sat at her dressing table, brushing out the heavy fall of honey-colored hair.

"You're the hotshot photographer," she said lightly. "You tell me."

"There is not," he said gravely. "I have spoken."

He thought of being inside her the night before, possessing her, bringing her with him to the heights of passion, of her cries and gasps. "Why not come back to bed?" he coaxed.

Laughing, she told him, "I've already been up for hours. Gotta go, babe. The kids wanted an extra rehearsal before Monday night, so I'm meeting them all in the gym in a few minutes.

She was a music teacher and the spring concert had all the kids excited.

"Be that way," he groused. "Give yourself to those pimple-faced teens and leave me aching for you!"

"You'll live," she told him, and pulled faded blue jeans over her slim legs, legs that had been tangled with his only hours before.

She started out the door. "Be back soon," she promised.

"Giselle?" he said, halting her for a moment. "Last night was the best, wasn't it?" He said it smugly, secure in the knowledge that, at that moment, he was probably the world's greatest cocksman.

Sure of her answer, he aimed his camera. She turned, fixing him with a long, appraising look. "Yes. The best." It was at that moment he chose to snap her picture, the flash temporarily dazzling her. "PHIL!" she protested, and then she was gone.

He puttered around, straightening the bedroom, making the bed, when something clunked to the floor. It was the little journal Giselle kept. He picked it up, intending to put it back on the nightstand next to her side of the bed, but his eye was caught by his name written in her flowing hand. Guiltily, he let himself read the page where his name appeared.

"Phillip tries so hard. I know last night he wanted to please me. Why can't he understand what I need?"

The words stunned him. "Tries so hard?" Hadn't her sighs of passion been real?

Snapping the journal closed, he chastised himself for betraying her trust. He retrieved the film from the camera and headed for the darkroom. Might as well develop the roll. The "Herald" had asked for a couple of stills for Monday's edition.

The last photo was of Giselle, and he stared at the expression on her lovely face as she had turned to respond to his question. If all the yearning desire ever experienced could be captured in one lingering look, Giselle would personify it. He saw in her eyes confusion, a sense of duty, a craving--a hunger even--for something denied. He felt sick. How could he be so ignorant of the raw needs of this woman he loved more than life itself? What is it she wanted that he failed to give her? It was as if he had caught the essence of her soul in this frame, and it frightened him beyond his ability to express it. How could he hope to hold her in the face of such unbridled, unrequited need?

Shaken, he sat in his darkroom, his mind waging war. At last, the skirmish won, he trudged heavily upstairs and picked up her journal. "Forgive me, my love," he whispered to the sun-drenched walls. He began to read.

As the last of the supper dishes were put in the cupboard, he came up behind her, encircling her in his arms. "You know, little brat, you left me in quite a state this morning."

"Really?" she asked, turning to him with an uncertain smile.

"Really. I don't think such wanton disregard for your Lord and Master's feelings can be tolerated."

"Ohhh, Lord and Master, is it?" she teased, an elegant eyebrow arched dramatically over her quizzical eyes.

"It is tonight. I think we'll just have to teach you a lesson about being a brat."

He swatted her jean-clad fanny and saw the color rise quickly to cheekbones. He became aware that she was holding her breath.

"What do you mean?" she finally squeaked, her breath rushing out all at once.

"I mean, young lady, that I think it's high time I stopped spoiling you and gave you a dose of old-fashioned discipline. Come, wench, to the bedroom!"

Had she been focused on anything beyond stilling the thundering of her heart, she might have noticed the photograph he had snapped of her this morning propped upon the computer. Next to the keyboard lay a pile of papers he had printed out.

"Bottom's Up--Three Naughty Brats Get Paddled," was the title of the top sheet. Had she not been dizzied by the unbelievable turn of events, she might have tarried there, thumbing through the sheaf of stories, commentary, and discussion from the Internet on the subject of adult spankings as a part of lovemaking.

But Giselle had no time to dally downstairs, for her husband, who had risked everything they both believed in on that day, pulled her along behind him as he prepared to fulfill her lifelong dreams. He had weighed the deep-seated yearning her heart had revealed to him with that one look, against the invasion of her privacy and the breaking of her implicit trust in him. His instincts told him he had made the right choice.

"Come on, you naughty princess," he said. "We're going to get you out of those jeans so I can pull down your panties, put you over my knee, and turn that sweet little bottom of yours crimson. And then we'll have to talk about some corner time, you and I, following which I think we'll have a little date with the hairbrush."

He didn't need the lens of his camera to capture the tears of joy that escaped from her eyes as he drew her down, down over his lap.