Date: Wed, 4 Sep 1996 21:49:24 -0400
X-Sender: teddyt@teddyt.pop.crosslink.net
Mime-Version: 1.0
To: laura@netgate.net
From: Ted <teddyt@crosslink.net>
Subject: The Touch

The Touch (M/F)

He was nervous, of course, never having strode into a motel lobby
before to meet a woman with spanking on her mind. It was on his
mind, as well, this early evening.

He was married and so was she. But that mattered little. They
were both dedicated spankers, though mostly in fantasy. He as a
daddy, she as a naughty girl. What was fundamental, however, for
this suddenly-arranged meeting was the she was true, not to her
husband but to her "dom" a continent away.

They had agreed by mail that no spanking would occur; that they
would meet in the motel restaurant for a bite and conversation.
Immediately, they were taken with each other as they knew they
would be. For once, two people who relished each other on line
were exactly as they imagined each other would be. And the
laughter! The laughter eased the man as nothing had in a long
time. Yes, he was part of the smart set on line and witty in his
writings. And he had an easy facility for making new
acquaintances in the real world giggle and laugh. But he himself
-- though one of his names meant "laughter" -- held much in.

He had been worrying that all the spanking fantasies and minor-
league duplicity he engaged in were wrinkling his personality.
Yet when he laughed, it was his blue eyes that wrinkled.

Snacks and soft drinks at dinner, with waitresses clad in bobby
sox, sneakers and skirts skimpier than a Republican's social
conscience, yielded to a nervous saunter to her room.

They agreed, over and over again. No contact. No touching. Just
talk. And it was just talk. No guilt, no violation of trust. But
as they talked, it became clearer that what this lady needed more
than anything else was the hug she often let slip as one of her
fantasy needs.

She agreed. She needed a hug at that moment. He towered over her
and held her in his arms, her head on the right shoulder of his
pinstriped oxford shirt. They were silent.

"Do not worry," he whispered near her ear, his left hand placed
firmly and not the least bit erotically on her back, his right
arm draped around her left shoulder.

She relaxed, letting her weight fall against his chest. In a
nonce, he began talking, as she knew he would. It was his forte.

"I will not touch you inappropriately. But let me ask you
something?

"Uh huh?" she purred. That was just the first of many unformed
sentences she would emit in the next few minutes.

"Remember how I used to give you a bath? I would start with your
face and end with your face, and you would have such a 'schoene
punim.' And how you would splash water all over the floor until
that one time I stood you up and spanked your bare little bottom
while it was still wet?"  He leaned his forearms on each side of
her collarbone, and from behind her head he began slapping his
hands together five times quickly. Then another five times
sharply. The sound of her long-ago spanking made the lady wiggle
and shudder. She nodded and made a little peep. "And how after
the bath I would help you get into your PJs and tuck you in? And
tell you stories, and pull the covers up and sit on your bed till
you fell asleep?" 

The lady did not resist the storytelling this time either, and
shifted her weight to rest more easily against her imaginary
daddy. His left hand rubbed the back of her dark sweater
smoothly, and he imperceptibly tightened his grip on her shoulder
-- and a little bit on her soul.

"How I would leave the light on in the hall?" She brushed her
honey ringlets against his chin in affirmation. "And, baby, I
never told you this, but one time I came back in to make sure you
really were asleep. And I found you hunched over with your head
in the pillow, and your bottom up in the air a little bit and
your PJ bottoms were down! I never told you. I just came in and
pressed your back until you curled back into the mattress and I
gave your tush a little slapppppppp. You seemed to smile even in
your sleep. You were such a good little girl." 

Not certain of where he and she were going, afraid that he might
be leading her into temptation he had abjured, he backed away
from her and put his forefinger beneath her chin. Without even a
touch, his motion prompted her to lift her face into the strand
of moonlight streaming through a part in the drapes. Then, he
knew. 

Her eyes were moist. The smooth face of a 30-something woman of
substance and means, a face that had seen sorrow of a real world
outside the walls of this room, had suddenly transformed. He was
agog. Her face was smoother than he remembered it in the
restaurant. Her mien had softened and she had become a generation
younger. She was eight years old. She hadn't said a word. She
hadn't put on any makeup. She hadn't changed clothes. But in
remembering an incident that never happened, the woman had
transformed herself, a chrysalis in reverse. 

He took stock of the situation, and while he could have easily
released her from his hug and resumed conversation about this and
that, the man surveyed the envelope of their desire and decided
to push it just a little.

He resumed his husky whisper. "And then there was that summer we
took the family vacation. You must have been about 12 or 13 then,
darling." She whimpered a little, having remembered that trip
like no other.

"Come with me," he instructed, and she walked, head down, her
hand in his, from between the motel's twin beds and toward the
spacious bathroom. "mnnnggpph," she whined a little, but the lady
did not resist her daddy this time. She was starting to remember
-- remember what never was, but what should have been and what
might yet be.

He took her to the sink and used a washcloth to wipe the tears
from her first spanking from her eyes. He flicked off the
bathroom light. In a hotel, bathrooms have plenty of room for
this sort of thing, and they have long sturdy metal towel bars
high on the wall.

The man did not speak, except to remind her: "I will not touch
you inappropriately." His marriage and her commitment to a far
away dom were worth keeping. But so was this moment of magic.

He turned her toward the wall and the towel bar, picking her
hands up and indicating where she should grasp. "Back up a step,
princess." She moved back. Without being told, she moved her legs
apart, highlighting the round bottom beneath black stretch pants,
a backside deserving of attention from him or any other man.

"We have a big day ahead of us, young lady, but first I must
impress upon you how disappointed you have made your mother and
me by your behavior in the hotel. You know better than to run
through the halls, order movies on TV and throw ice cubes off the
balcony. DON'T YOU??"

She began sniffling and nodded once. She straightened up suddenly
as she heard the belt swishing from beneath the tight loops on
daddy's trousers. But he ordered, "Put your hands back on the
bar. Step away from the wall." He was quiet, but firm. She knew
what would happen again.

He took the two-inch wide belt and folded the buckle end against
the pointed tip, billowing the middle of the strap outward, with
plenty of air between the strips of leather. She twitched, and
suddenly and louder than a .22 rifle in a warehouse he snapped
both ends of the belt together an inch from her quivering tights-
clad bottom. She jerked and cried out.

Again, he snapped the strap, loud and hard, compressing the air
behind her. She did not look back, but exhaled a plaintive
"ooohhhh!!" He lectured her softly, and his words of paternal
shame to her would have produced quietly flowing tears by
themselves. But with each phrase of loving reproach, he made the
belt echo throught the bathroom. Each crack reverberated in their
ears and more so through her loins. She felt the whipping every
bit as much as if it were actually delivered, grateful that her
daddy was taking care of her and lucky that she would not have to
bear the actual weals of justice.

When the strap had done its duty, he took her white-knuckles from
around the metal bar and turned her into him once more. She was
wiggling and shifting her weight just as if she had actually
endured a well deserved belt-spanking at age 13 and in a hotel
room yet! With her mother and brother in the next room listening
to the mortification of her bottom. Daddy had often promised a
spanking on their trips, but this was the first time, and the
last time, he would actually administer one on a trip.

He hugged her again and once more looked into her eyes. As the
fantasy defogged itself into the reality of the hour, he was
amazed again. This time, she was really crying and pouting,
gazing up at him with wide eyes of respect and contrition. That
face. That face! She could have worn it back to the restaurant
that moment and have been carded at the bar! She had become her
fantasy age once more.

Clearly, she needed what the man was giving her. And clearly, he
needed to be giving himself. He had been gifted so much from so
many people emotionally, it was only right that spanking stories
allowed him to return to others the strength and security that
even the most wordly need from time to time.

Again, the only words he spoke directly to the woman inside the
child were, "Don't worry. I will not touch you inappropriately."

She was way beyond worry, transporting herself into the arms and
control of her new daddy. How she would explain herself to her
old daddy; how he would explain the mascara on his white shirt to
his wife would have to wait. But right now, he took her out of
the bathroom and toward the bed. She knew he would not take
advantage. He knew he would not do or say a word that would give
her doubt. It was not in his nature. He was not yet certain of
*her* nature, recalling that she had joked before about not
wanting to like him *too* much. But that was for later, also.

Right now, as they approached the foot of the bed, she held her
knees together and slumped as if her tights and panties had
actually been shackling her ankles. With the touch of a feather
on the middle of her back, he guided her face down onto the bed,
her knees on the motel carpet. He sat to her left, facing the
dresser and mirror as she lay her right cheek onto the bedspread,
looking toward the Bible in the open nightstand drawer.

He crooked his left arm, elbow out, and placed his hand flat on
the bed just inches from her waist, his limb forming a
parenthesis around her. Her sweater had ridden up exposing a bare
patch at the small of her back. The tight pants outlined a most
spankable bottom and hid all but the tiny line of panty waistband
that crept from beneath the trouser's union label.

But touch her he did not. It had gone too far for him to touch
her bare back or succumb to a quick slap on her bottom that would
have destroyed the temple of their union. He was a very
disciplined man, but this was a temptation that took every power
of his will to restrain. That he did so made him proud. It made
her love him even more, though he did not know it at the moment.

"Young lady!" he barked at her to begin the third act of this
opening -- and closing -- night. "You are 17 years old and
getting way out of control. You stayed out until 4 o'clock and
you didn't call! What has gotten into you?"

Of course she did not reply. Her palpitating bottom cheeks and
sweet sighs of remorse told him she was ready for a juvenile
punishment that would be her last. He slid himself backwards so
his hip was next to her chest, his left hand planted firmly on
the soft mattress next to her right thigh. He was going to spank
her hard this time, and this time he did.

He spanked her hard and bare -- not with his hand but with his
voice, describing in detail the lowering of her too-tight pants,
the tugging down of her skimpy panties and placing of his hand 
beneath her right thigh-top to raise her bottom up for the warm-
up handspanking. 

Now that he was sure she would remain in position, he took his
left hand from beside her and clapped it against his right hand,
so close above her upturned bottom that she almost felt the
breeze. He spanked her like this 20 times. Then he bridged his
left arm around her on the bed one more time, picked up the belt
and lashed the bedspread ten times. With each lick, she moaned
and wriggled, careful never to actually touch her punisher.
Anyone walking down the hall would have sworn that a naughty girl
was getting a licking. But they would be wrong. The man and the
woman in the room never had touched inappropriately.

Finally, he put his hand on her bare skin -- but only as a
gentleman taking her hand and helping her to her feet.

They hugged one more time, and, almost afraid of what he would
discover about her, he looked at her face again. As he had come
to expect, it was the countenance of a naughty angel, a girl-
woman who would sob when her daddy spanked but teased the egos of
college men with the merest wink of an eye.

The playlet was over. She had a phone call to make to her dom. He
had to negotiate his way back home. They disengaged from the hug
and the scene.

"I didn't touch you," he beamed, proud of his self control.

"Yes you did," she sighed, proud of hers, too.

                         ###