by Janine Burrell
"So what was wrong with this one, Angela? Let me guess ... he doesn't like Chinese food? Or maybe he wears too much blue?"
Christina couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice when it came to discussing her older sister's dating habits. The reality was that Angela never got far enough with a potential suitor to know his food or clothing preferences. Twice widowed by age 40, Angela was having limited success in meeting Mr Right. Afraid of opening up herself to disappointment and heartbreak again, she saw everyone as Mr Wrong.
"No, Chris, nothing like that. This guy was moving too quickly for me. He wanted to ..." she paused for a breath, "... to talk on the phone. It was just too soon, I think." Actually, there were other factors involved, but Angela wasn't ready to discuss those with anyone.
Christina sighed in frustration. At the rate her overly-cautious sister was going, she was never going to find another man. Despite the online dating site Angela had hesitantly tried on her own, she was having a hard time progressing from the virtual world to the real one.
"Too soon? Too soon? And how long were you chatting online with this one? One month? Two? It's normal to want to talk on the phone if you like someone. And then, oh my God, here's a shocker - perhaps even meet them in person! It's called DATING!" the younger sister snapped.
Christina knew she sounded harsh, but it was beyond frustrating to see a desirable and beautiful woman like her sister remain alone, doing nothing to change things for the better. It was as if Angela's adventurous spirit had died along with her last husband.
"I'm going to hang up if you continue to be so nasty, Chris. You'll never understand. You've been lucky in love - you have a husband and kids. All I've ever had is bad luck," Angela sniffled in despair.
"So maybe that means you're finally due for some good luck," her sister suggested, trying her best to sound convincing. "And maybe you should stop wearing black all the time. What kind of message does that send, Angie?"
"And why shouldn't I wear black? I'm a Black Widow and always will be, Chris. No guy is ever going to want to date me, let alone marry me. Not when the results will be fatal for him," Angela said dramatically.
Christina tried to control her frustration. "No one's going to die from dating or marrying you. In fact, any guy would be lucky to have you, but you have to put yourself out there to find him, Angie. What happened to Tim was an unfortunate accident, and it's been over a year since Michael ..."
"Bad things always happen in three's," Angela reminded her.
"Oh for God's sake, that's superstitious nonsense, Angela," Christina said in exasperation. "Stop talking like that, and stop calling yourself a Black Widow. No wonder you scare off potential boyfriends!"
After no response from Angela, Christina softened a little.
"Hey, listen. Yeah, I know you got a raw deal and have been unlucky."
"Twice," Angela reminded her.
"Yes, twice," she agreed. "But that doesn't mean history will repeat itself. You need to make your own luck now. Perhaps you're not selling yourself right, Angie. You've got so many great qualities. Maybe I could help you with your online profile. You're always so secretive about-"
"I don't want to talk about it, Chris! It's none of your business what I post online, or where, and you don't need to help me find a boyfriend!"
"Stop being so defensive, Angie! I'm just trying to help you."
Close to tears and feeling more alone than ever, Angela hung up on her well-intentioned sister. She would never be able to tell Christina what she was looking for in a man, or the specific kind of dating website she had posted on. Her family, her friends, everyone would judge her and think her strange; Angela was certain of it. Only Michael had understood her true needs and desires. Only he had been able to take her to those special places they'd discovered together, in ways that had seemed not only wonderful but normal. And now he was gone - taken too soon by a weak heart, breaking hers in the process.
In the kitchen Angela poured herself a large glass of red wine before settling on the living room sofa, her mind wandering to better times - a birthday when Michael had bent her naked over the back of this very couch and lovingly given her 35 birthday spanks that had made her moan and writhe. He had used her favorite leather paddle that day, taking her breath away, taking her to limits she would never forget. Their lovemaking afterwards had been passionate and intense. How could she ever hope to find that passion again?
She took a big sip of wine and swallowed. Angela laughed bitterly as she thought of the wicked nickname she had recently given herself: The Black Widow. Deadly, dangerous, and dark. She wasn't daring enough to use that as her profile name on the dating site (she preferred the more benign "Naughty Angel"); but when she had gotten to know a potential spanker well enough, she would tell him about her unlucky past, about her nickname, about her 'danger capacity' with men. Maybe some part of her hoped to scare them away, but she justified that it was important for them to know the good AND the bad about her, to be informed about the jeopardy they were getting into by becoming involved with her.
"I've never believed in silly superstition, Angel. Don't worry about me. I'm not concerned in the least," Sid had typed.
The ones who'd broken it off because they'd found her morbid and strange - well, she was better off without them, she reasoned. And if the truth didn't scare them, she would find some other reason why they were unsuitable to meet in real life. Too pushy, too wimpy, too rude, too possessive, too insensitive, too serious. Of course she'd never admit to herself that she kept potential suitors at a distance: she wore her widow status like steel-plated armor. Perhaps she felt unfaithful to Michael's memory or believed that she didn't deserve happiness? But she often felt she deserved to be spanked. She longed for it like nothing else. But whom could she trust?
"I could give you what you need, what you deserve, my Naughty Angel. You can trust me," Sid had promised.
She took another sip of wine and thought back to the many local men who had responded to her personals ad. How could there be so many interested spankers within an hour of where she lived in Colorado? It surprised yet comforted her to know she wasn't so alone in her interests. Some of the responses had been strange and scary - she'd known right away not to seriously consider them. And those who had seemed okay at first would finally show their true colors as time went on. They couldn't respect her limits, her boundaries, and her pace.
But then there was Sid.
They were close in age and had hit it off right away. Angela was certain that Sid wasn't his real name (it stood for 'Spanker in Denver' on the site). They'd joked about his boring profile name, but their online chats had proved him to be far from boring. And the picture he'd e-mailed her showed him to be quite handsome (assuming that was what he really looked like, of course). But Sid's humor, compassion, and easy-going manner online had been like a balm for her troubled soul.
"You can tell me whatever you want. Isn't it great to find a kindred spirit?"
And it was great. There were a few times when she'd forgotten her cautious new self and had opened up (just a little) to Sid about the life she'd once had, the life which had included spanking and love. Over time, she'd confided about wanting to be held down over a strong man's knee; about loving to be bared to a firm hand and an even firmer hairbrush; about being scolded for being naughty; about being brought to the edge of pleasure and to the point of tears as well.
Sid had listened patiently, seeming to understand her needs, respecting her boundaries, yet wanting more than an online relationship - if only she could give it.
"Here's my phone number. No pressure, okay? You can call me anytime - call whenever you're ready. I mean it, Angel."
Chats with Sid increased, yet Angela was too scared to move forward. So she did what she always did - cloaked in her grief, she talked about her painful past and the nickname that haunted her present.
"Black Widow, huh?" he'd typed. "Let's change that. I'll make you a very RED Widow when I finally get you over my knee!"
She had stared at the computer screen that night, disarmed by his offhand response. Did he think calling her a Red Widow was funny? Her widowhood should be beyond reproach, beyond humor.
After little deliberation, she convinced herself that Sid deserved the farewell e-mail she'd sent following their last chat. She willed herself to forget him. He was just another in a long line of unsuitables, after all.
The wine glass now empty, Angela returned to the kitchen in search of a refill. The bottle of Merlot sat on the granite countertop in the center island, and the warm memory of leaning over that cold, hard surface came flooding back to her ...
"Hands and chest across the counter and don't you dare get up, naughty girl," Michael teased before roughly pulling her skirt up and panties down. She giggled at being so exposed to him, at feeling the cool air on her bare skin.
"Hmmm ... let's see what we have to work with," he said as he rummaged through the cluttered drawers beside the stove. "A spatula, perhaps? A soup ladle? Oh wait, here's something much better!"
She let out a small peep when she felt the wooden spoon resting on her bare backside. He trailed the spoon up and down her lovely legs and full bottom until she shivered, building the anticipation for both of them. The first spank was intense and sting-y but welcomed nonetheless.
"Ooh," she gasped. "More, Michael. Please."
He was happy to oblige her as he alternated swats, each connection making her cheeks bounce in response to the solid THUD of curved wood against curved flesh. The sting burned in such a way that she soon began kicking her feet in reaction.
"Nope, young lady," Michael said when she tried to stand up. "You need to stay down and take your medicine," he mock-warned as he gently pushed her down, one hand on the small of her back. As he held her firmly in place against the counter, she moaned in surrender.
He continued to thoroughly apply the spoon, its echoes competing with Angela's whimpers in the big, open kitchen. When her blotchy backside turned a deep pink hue in places, Michael stopped to savor the view and rub his wife's throbbing bottom. She groaned and arched into his caresses, letting him know how aroused she was. He pressed hard against her from behind, making it obvious how aroused he was too.
"Mm, Michael, that was heavenly," she cooed as he pushed aside her hair and softly kissed the back of her neck, goose bumps rising across her skin. "What else do you have in store for me tonight?" She looked back at him, her eyes hooded with desire.
"So you want more?" he asked with a laugh. He spun her around then quickly removed her skirt, bra and blouse. "So beautiful," he said in admiration. "And all mine. I could die tonight a happy man, knowing how lucky I am to have you, Angie."
They began to passionately kiss, his large hands slowly working down her curvaceous body, detouring to explore her inviting breasts, his fingers ultimately reaching her wet folds below.
"Do you want more of THIS?" he asked as his thumb teased her most sensitive spot, and a finger moved in deeper to make her writhe with pleasure. "Or do you want more spanking?" And with his other hand he reached around to rub and squeeze her tender cheeks.
It was a tough decision to make, especially with such wonderful stimulation both in front and in back. But the evening was still young - plenty of time for both, she thought happily. So she guided his fingers away from their exploration and leaned in closer to whisper, "I really want the belt tonight. I'm ready, baby. Do it like you want to."
Michael hardened at the thought of using his favorite implement on that lovely ass of hers. Angela knew how turned on he got when strapping or belting her, but it wasn't something she agreed to very often.
"You're so adventurous, Angie. That's what I love most about you," he whispered in appreciation.
"I love you too, Michael."
She slowly unbuckled the brown leather belt and slid it through the loops of his jeans, handing it to him with a seductive smile.
"Where do you want me ... sir?"
"Back across the counter. You know the position," he said as blandly as possible, but his excitement was evident.
She very purposefully stretched across the cold granite, thrusting out her quickly-fading bottom, spreading her legs in invitation. He took several moments to drink in the delightful sight before him then adjusted his jeans in front. He was afraid he wouldn't last long at this rate.
He doubled up the supple belt and dragged it along her cheeks and thighs, much as he'd done with the wooden spoon. Her breath hitched while she anticipated that same leather applied in much harsher ways.
"Ready?" he asked, stepping back and raising the belt in eagerness.
"Yes sir," she responded, so he wasted no time bringing down the first powerful lick across both cheeks.
"Ahh," she cried out, her legs wobbly but maintaining position. He scarcely allowed recovery time before repeating the action twice more, knowing how she preferred rapid-fire intensity. As her tender cheeks jiggled and clenched beneath each kiss of the leather, she gasped at the burning sensation. Beltings always managed to shock her, no matter how much she tried to anticipate them.
Michael paused to let his wife catch her breath while he rubbed out the sting. Her cheeks were already so warm, her prone body so inviting-he had a hard time not taking her from behind, then and there.
"Okay, Angela?" he asked, stepping back in position.
"Yeah, okay. Go on," she answered softly, clenching her fists in preparation for what was to come, raising her hips like she knew he adored. His heart raced as he lifted his arm and swung for the fourth time, connecting higher across her cheeks, followed quickly by another strike a few inches lower and a powerful, final lick which caught the tops of her sensitive, milky thighs.
"OW," she cried out, kicking up her legs in protest, her knuckles white against the black granite. "Oh my god, Michael, OW, OW!" she repeated in tears, getting up to rub herself just moments before he moved in behind her.
"Let me help," he urged as he rubbed and soothed her, wanting to feel again the heat coming off her luscious skin. By now his arousal was almost painful. Even his chest tightened in anticipation. His long fingers traced the same path the leather had just travelled across her bare backside and thighs. Much to his delight, Angela already had quite visible reminders of this evening's activities.
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