by Rue Chapman
Nina walked through the house one more time, checking that everything was ready. These preparations always added to her excitement. She'd vacuumed, put fresh flowers in the vases, hidden the worst of the mess in the spare bedroom... all the things you do before company comes.
And put the toy chest and a few other special items in the main bedroom. Not something you do before ordinary company comes. But this was a special visitor.
She already had that tingle of excitement building, that delicious anticipation.
It seemed so silly to be standing there in your nice, ordinary outfit, and to know that soon you'd be bent over while someone spanked your bare bottom. It was such a ridiculous idea, totally ludicrous. She wore this skirt and top to work, to go shopping... what would people think if she said, "The last time I wore this skirt I got my bottom spanked!"
She shivered, and walked around the house again, unable to settle to anything. She'd never liked waiting.
And this time she had a special surprise for him. She didn't want him to get bored with the same old routine, not that he seemed to mind it. Usually they'd have a nice meal together, and a nice chat together, then he'd say. "Well, how about we get started?" And the butterflies would start, and he'd follow her down the corridor to the bedroom, and then...
Usually he'd start with a ruler or crop over her skirt, then over panties, then finally on the bare, he liked to unveil gradually. She loved the way the light tapping over her skirt built up to a fiercer sting on panties, then there was that shivery moment of embarrassment - still, after their years together, being bared made her feel so exposed and helpless. And the bite of ruler on bare skin was always able to make her gasp. Then there'd be a paddle, or maybe the tawse. He always worked methodically, slow steady strokes in sets of ten, twenty or thirty, then moved to the other side for an equal amount. To even her up, of course - such a kind thought.
After that it depended on the game they were playing. A lady of the evening would have to display her merchandise. A slave girl would be stripped to remind her of her lowly, submissive status. In fact, whatever roles they had, somehow it was always time for her to reveal her charms. In a way she hated this - what woman likes being stripped naked, losing all her protective covering, and having to stand there, in a room with one wall covered by mirrors, with all her faults on show? But by now he knew what he was getting, and he didn't seem to dislike the show, so she'd become accustomed to it. And usually, if she wore her favourite black lace bustier (so flattering, it covered all the problem areas from breast to hip, while leaving the fun parts freely available), or the black satin garter belt and stockings, he'd tell her to leave it on.
Even though it was embarrassing, it was shivery fun to strip for him. Slowly. He liked her to strip slowly. Then there were the times when he stripped her... and it felt even more shivery-fun when she had to stand still while he stripped her, his hands moving softly over her as the clothing fell away.
She'd stand with her hands on her head, a very handy posture. It reinforced her submissive status, it gave her something to do with her hands, and raising her arms like that helped to counteract her natural sag.
Then he'd touch, and stroke, and work his way down... she'd be ordered to lie on the bed and let him examine even closer, with gentle fingers, and lips, and tongue, until she was quivering... ... and he'd order her up and over, bent over for more spanking, maybe the lovely leather paddle. He was expert at pacing their games, there'd be spanking, then stroking and teasing, then more spanking, then finally he'd take her, slow and gentle, she'd feel that almost-painful stretching that suddenly would become so amazingly right, so perfect.
Then, showing his amazing self control, he'd pause, and it was time for just a bit more spanking, the grand finale. She had to get her six of the best with the scary, horrible cane. "Count them." Each number was forced out as the cruel, horrible cane fell. She always hated it so much, it was a mean, nasty implement.
"That really hurt!"
"That was barely half strength."
"Marks! Look, I have marks!" Faint, fading pink lines were showing when she examined herself in those horrible, but handy, mirrors. They were gone in a moment, she was a sadly fast fader. And she knew he was going easy on her, she was such a wimp. He'd stroke her poor punished bottom, then stroke further, then they'd resume their other position.
After they'd finished their more intimate activities, it was time for snuggling.
And she'd curl up against him, and whisper. "Could I ... can I ask something?"
"Sure." He was in lazy lion mode, sated and content.
"Can I have... six more with the cane?"
And, being obliging, he'd deliver six more.
"...Not too hard, not too high, not too low... oww..." She hated the cane, it was so scary. But the rush afterwards was incredible.
That wonderful rush, that addictive spank-high.
"Um, can I ... can I have one more, one harder one?"
"Seventy percent strength."
The moment she was bent over she'd change her mind. "No, wait, not too hard, ok? I've changed my mind..."
"Too late."
"Yeow!"
A real stinger, dead on target. She'd jump up and wriggle madly, trying to rub that horrible burning away, then they'd snuggle some more. "I can still feel it! It's still stinging."
And he'd look so smug. There's something seriously Freudian about men and their love of long implements like crops and canes.
Yes, that was their normal session. But she didn't want to get dull and predictable. She didn't want him to be bored. Sometimes they played in other rooms - the leather lounge and footstool were a favourite, she loved the feel of the leather couch under her bare skin, although later when she had less intimate visitors she always felt a little strange, seeing them sitting where, just the day before... Embarrassing memories would surface at inconvenient moments.
She'd have the same inconvenient memories about the dining room table, the lounge room floor, a corner of the garage, and one of the chairs in the family room.
But they'd done all that, several times. She needed something more exciting. They needed variety in their play, maybe the St Andrew's cross again? Or a room they hadn't christened yet... she wondered about the laundry, but the tile floor would be so uncomfortable.
No, she'd had a better idea. A really scary one. So she shivered, and waited. And there was a knock at the door. She hurried to greet him, loving the kiss and hug, their usual ritual.
He'd brought Chinese, and he was hungry, so they ate first, and chatted, and watched some of the news on TV. It was odd, they'd met up through their mutual love of spanking, but they had exactly the same attitudes to most of the issues, she was often surprised when he'd say just what she'd been thinking about some current situation. So in tune, so much alike.
Yes, she had to be careful or he'd start getting bored.
Here came those lovely words. "Well, how about we get started?"
That quiver of excitement was stronger, was she brave enough for this? She had to be.
He'd looked at her outfit when he arrived, usually she was dressed as a slave, or a French maid, or a Victorian maid (he loved discovering those split knickers!) But this time she looked so ordinary.
Ordinary can be deceptive. Ordinary skirt, ordinary top, and underneath was that lovely bustier (hoping to keep the troublesome midriff and tum covered, while giving free access to all the bouncy bits.) And no knickers, but that was hardly exciting, sometimes she was bare under her skirt to surprise him a little.
Surprise. She was going to surprise him alright.
He turned towards the bedroom, but she took his hand. "I wanted to show you something." And led him to the front door.
The front patio was a neatly paved area, with large pots of lavender and bougainvillea, and a café table and two chairs, made of heavy copper-coloured metal. The table top was set with a terracotta pattern, as were the round chair seats. There was a bright, patterned shade umbrella, and a low knee-high stone wall separating the patio from the fish pond. A large pine tree sheltered the far corner of the patio. A nice, average front patio.
And that sheltered corner was the only place around her house that wasn't totally open. Everywhere else, front and back yards, was overlooked by neighbours. But that tiny corner of the front patio... if you angled the shade umbrella just right... and the next door neighbours on that side weren't home yet.
"Um, we talked about playing outside a bit... and this is the only spot... I thought maybe, if you wanted to... just a quick spanking out here... if you want to..."
She was always so articulate.
He looked around. "They can see us from the street."
"Not behind the bush. You go check."
Carefully, seriously, he walked down the front garden and surveyed the patio. The house was set a long way back from the road, far more than in a suburban street. And there was hardly anyone ever walking along the road, apart from the occasional dog walker, everyone drove to get anywhere - it's too far to walk to the shops when you live out in the country. There was also little traffic, and what did go past was usually speeding well over the limit, and gone in less than a second.
He came back and angled the umbrella carefully. "What about the neighbours?"
"They're not home yet." Hopefully.
He placed a chair in the sheltered zone. "Bend over."
Things are never just how you planned them. When she imagined this, she was bent over facing the street, so that even if anyone could see anything, they wouldn't see anything. But he'd placed the chair so that she faced away from the street. Her bottom faced the street. Her soon to be bare bottom. She hadn't planned on this. He was in control now.
She bent over, hands on the seat of the chair.
This wasn't like any of their usual sessions. The excited tingling was now a wild quiver, she was scared and tense and every nerve was totally alive.
He started to lift her skirt (carefully chosen, a full double circle skirt gathered into a yoke on the hips. Easy to raise, or lower in a hurry if necessary. A girl has to plan ahead.)
And... she was bared. Bare bottom. Her bare bottom was exposed in the sunlight, in the open air. Facing the street. Cars were going past. People might be walking innocent dogs. Just metres from her bare bottom. Bare.
Her brain was locked, on that thought. All the busy wheels that always kept turning were frozen. She was bare, exposed, in public. Almost.
The first smack stung her cheeks.
He didn't do hand spankings very often. Usually his hand spankings weren't very hard, or long, they were just a brief opening act before the real spanking.
This was different. Her skin felt so much more alive, and each smack stung wildly. Every nerve seemed more alive, somehow. She'd never had a spanking like this.
Each smack brought her body alive, her brain kept screaming, 'You're BARE! Bare bottom in public! Any second now someone will see you!'
She was bent over being spanked on her bare bottom. Outside. And each smack was intense, and amazing, and wild, and had a sting she'd never felt before. This was like her first ever spanking, times a hundred. This was the spanking of a lifetime, not hard, but more real and alive than she'd ever known.
She arched her back and pushed her bottom out to meet his hand. Each smack was a master stroke. Each pang a universe of sensation. She gasped and yelped, tiny sounds of pain and delight.
She was being spanked outside! Bare. Outside!
This was wild and dangerous and intense and incredible. It wasn't real, and it was so incredibly real, more real than she'd ever been.
His hand stung her cheeks, this was the most perfect hand spanking she'd ever had. Cars went past, so close. So far away. They were in a fragile bubble of their own.
Her hands held the chair seat so tightly she couldn't move her fingers. She stayed in position and quivered under his touch as the spanking stopped and he stroked the heated skin... then his fingers strayed further.
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