Subject: New story: The Man She Chose (M/F)
From: Kent Stoneking <kentls001@worldnet.att.net>
Date: 18 Aug 1999 21:17:46 -0700
This one is about consensuality and respect, I guess ... hope you like it.
* * *
The summons arrived unexpectedly, in the form of a message on their answering machine. "Terri, this is Stan. I'm in town for the weekend. The Plaza Hotel, Room 436. Tomorrow, 8:00 p.m. sharp. Don't be late."
She stood staring at the machine, her mind awhirl. Stan ... she hadn't heard that name in almost ten years. She thought - hoped - she'd never hear it again.
"Wow." Ron's gentle voice brought her back to earth. "That was the Stan, wasn't it?"
"Yes," she replied simply. Of course her husband knew all about Stan. They'd agreed, long ago, there would be no secrets between them; a policy they'd adhered to successfully through four years of marriage.
"So: are you going to see him?"
"No!" she snapped, a little too harshly. Softening her tone, she quickly added, "I mean, why would I? I've got you now."
He put his arm around her waist, gave her an affectionate squeeze. "Thank you, darling. But I thought you'd at least be curious. I mean, you and he were quite a couple -"
"That was a long time ago." She forced a smile. "Honey, I really don't want to talk about this, okay?"
"As you wish." He headed to the kitchen to start preparing dinner.
The evening meal was a very subdued affair; she pushed her food around her plate, eating very little. After a few hours spent staring mindlessly at the television screen, absorbing absolutely nothing, she went to bed, Ron following shortly thereafter. Propped up on his pillows, he read for a few minutes, then put his novel aside, looked at his recumbent wife, and said, "Come on, Terri. Spill it."
"Spill what?" she asked.
"You know our rule. If something's bothering either of us, we don't go to sleep until we've talked it out. So what's eating you?"
"Nothing!" she insisted.
"It's Stan, isn't it?"
"No shit, Sherlock," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.
"I think you should go to him."
"WHAT?" She rolled over, seeing him smiling down at her. "You can't be serious."
"Why not?"
"You really think I should go?"
"Yes, I do. You're curious, and if you don't go, you'll always wonder what would have happened."
Damn, he knew her well. But there were other considerations, another person at stake. "You wouldn't mind?"
He shifted his position, snuggling down closer to her. "Terri, I won't pretend to understand what went on between you and Stan. But I love you, and I know our relationship is strong enough that, after you're through with him, you'll come back to me. And if you don't, then I guess our relationship wasn't what I thought it was."
"Oh, Ron -" she hugged him hard. They kissed, long and deep; then he held her tight until she fell asleep.
So, the next evening found her standing outside Room 436 of the Plaza Hotel, trying to (finally) make up her mind. She'd been vacillating back and forth all day. She loved Ron, and had a good life with him. Her time with Stan was best left buried in the distant past.
But, on the other hand, maybe Stan had changed. Maybe he was different now. And, (she couldn't deny it), there was this small part of her - a part she hadn't heard from for years - that wondered what it would be like to be with Stan again.
Mustering up her faltering courage, she rang the doorbell. Seconds later, the door swung open. "You came," the familiar voice smirked. "I knew you would."
She took a good look at him, not certain she'd have recognized him. The once-wavy black hair had thinned considerably, receding far up his forehead. His stomach, never washboard-flat, now protruded well beyond his black leather vest.
The vest ... that hadn't changed any. No shirt, of course; he never wore a shirt. She looked downwards, completing the inventory. Black leather pants, black boots. Yes, some things certainly hadn't changed.
He stepped back, allowing her into the suite. As she glanced around the opulently furnished living room, her breath caught. There, laid out on the sofa, were all his toys: the hood ... the restraints ... and the whips. Oh, God, the whips.
"On your knees, slut!"
The imperious command struck her like a slap in the face. After a few seconds' stunned silence, she found her tongue. "Stan, I -"
"SILENCE!" he roared. "I did not give you permission to speak!"
And, in a rush, all her long-repressed memories came flooding back. This abrupt treatment - no greeting, no concern for her needs, just "On your knees!" She knew now why'd she run away from Stan in the first place; and why this visit was a mistake.
Shaking her head sadly, she said, "Goodbye, Stan," and headed for the door.
"You're not going anywhere, slave!"
"Don't call me that!" she snarled. His eyes widened at the iron in her voice. "At one time I was your slave," she explained. "Maybe ... at one time ... I needed to be your slave. But that was long ago. I've changed. I'm not that person any more."
"Then why did you come?" he sneered.
"To - to show you what type of person I've become," she replied, gaining confidence. "And to see if you'd grown any. But you haven't. Goodbye, Stan."
She stepped toward the suite door; he jumped in front of her. "Listen, slut, it's been years since I've corrected you, so I can understand your improper behavior. If you get on your knees and blow me right now, I won't whip you as much as you deserve -"
As he spoke, she walked over to the sofa and picked up the sjambok. "Get out of the way, Stan," she said, uncoiling the heavy whip, "unless you want me to use this on you."
"You wouldn't dare!"
CRACK! The whip's end snapped inches from his face. He recoiled instinctively.
"Try me."
Sagging visibly, he moved away from the door. Terri tossed the sjambok back onto the couch. As she brushed by him, he muttered, "You'll be back."
She faced him. "No, Stan, I won't."
"Oh, yes, you will. You still need me."
"If that were true, Stan, I wouldn't be leaving now. You know that as well as I do." They held eye contact for a while; he was the first to look away.
On the threshold, she turned back one last time. "Oh, and Stan? Don't ever contact me again. If you do, I'll get a restraining order against you - and I'll make sure everybody knows why." With that, she walked away, never once looking back.
Terri drove home slowly, cursing herself all the way. What had she been thinking? She wasn't that frightened, lonely young girl, so desperate for attention -- any kind of attention - that she gave herself willingly to someone like Stan. She had a new life, a wonderful new life, with a husband who adored her. She just hoped she hadn't damaged that relationship too badly...
She found Ron seated on the family room sofa, watching CNN. "That didn't take too long," he commented as she sat down next to him. "How was it?"
"Awful," she replied, snuggling close to his side and leaning her head on his shoulder. "Stan was the same barbarian he'd always been."
"You didn't -"
"No. I walked out on him."
"Well, I'm very proud of you."
She looked up at him. "For going, or for leaving?"
"Both." He held her tight for a while, then, sensing something, asked, "You okay?"
She searched her feelings carefully. "No. But I think I know how I could be." Gently removing his arms from around her, Terri got to her feet and left the room, returning a few moments later with the hairbrush clasped tightly in her hands.
Ron sat up straighter at the site. "Terri, what's that for?"
"I never should have even considered going to see Stan," she replied. "For that, I need to be punished."
"But it was my idea in the first place!" he protested. "Anyway, you're an adult, and you can make your own decisions -"
"That's right. I can make my own decisions, and I've decided I need a good spanking." Smiling, she added, "From you."
Ron returned her smile as he accepted the hairbrush from her, laying it aside. He took her hands in his and gently assisted her into position across his lap. He arranged her skirt up about her waist, then tenderly massaged her bottom through her panties before raising his hand and bringing it down, sharply, across her rump.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Terri settled in, grasping the sofa cushion, as her husband's palm continued impacting her pantyseat. She knew, when the heat building up reached a certain point, her panties would come down and Ron would apply his hand to her bare flesh. When she'd been fully warmed up (and only then), the hairbrush would come to complete her punishment - the punishment she needed, the punishment she gladly accepted, delivered by the man she loved, the man she'd chosen.