by Ross Mariner
She had asked for a spanking!
Kat and I had discussed this request at some length over lunch, and agreed that her request would be granted. She had told me why she wanted to be spanked, and what she felt it would be like, or should be like. From what she said, it was clear that her ideas about a spanking shared between two adults were very much the same as my own. My fear, of course, was that Kat might find the reality was not the warm and comfortable means of dealing with a problem of behaviour that she either imagined as a woman, or vaguely remembered from when she was a little girl of ten, several decades ago. It has been said that pain leaves no memory, and that is probably partially so, but only partially. The intensity of pain experienced does fade in time like all bad memories, but never fully disappears. Then, too, there is the reality of pain at the moment it is experienced.
It had been more than four decades since Kat had been placed across a parental lap, her panties lowered and her bottom smacked. It seemed that she remembered the position and being held firmly in place for her spanking, and the awareness that despite being punished for a misdeed, she was still wanted and loved. Still, a spanking given as a consequence for poor behaviour hurts. That was the point of the exercise then. I wondered if she had forgotten that reality about getting spanked. However this one was going to turn out for her, our conversation had not deterred Kat's wish for her first adult spanking. She had repeated her request, and I had accepted. How could I not?
As the agreed time approached and I drove toward her home, just a few minutes away, those last few moments in the restaurant as we parted to await this private meeting together remained vivid in my mind and fed the imagination. There was the deliciously soft yet firm femininity I had felt with that love pat I had finally dared to give her, and the amazing spark of electricity I'd experienced on briefly touching her chastely clothed bottom. Her wonderful smile that followed promised much. Then the view as she walked away from me, the delectable, undulating motion of her hips as she moved, and the curves hidden yet emphasised by her skirt, its pleats outlining her hidden womanly shape. I could see nothing and imagine everything.
Such thoughts and visions occupied me, swirling about in my brain as the car and I covered the final few blocks between the restaurant and Kat's home on Lady Street. With such distractions, the other drivers on the town thoroughfares and I were mutually fortunate that no mishap occurred.
The house, while being unique in its design was still typical of the town. It was quite large, with a friendly, welcoming appearance. The outer walls were of white clapboard construction, with window frames and shutters in contrasting black. The roof, also black, was intriguing with three distinct ridges, interesting dormers and valleys. The building was an urban artist's delight, and a roofer's nightmare. The central portion of the dwelling, once a simple cottage, had been built when Queen Victoria was on the throne and Sir John A. Macdonald was Canada's Prime Minister. As the original owner's family grew in size and he achieved modest success in the business world, additions were made to provide living space for the seven children, their parents, and a maid, not to mention the two jet black Labrador retrievers. The horse, buggy and cutter had their accommodations in a small barn that was finally demolished when the horse and buggy were replaced by an impressive Hupmobile motor car. Like Topsy, and many other town dwellings, Kat's house just grew. It was a house with charm and character, much like the lady who now lived within it.
I parked in front and wondered just where to go. There were two large verandas, each with what appeared to be the front door. Taking the path of least resistance, I made my way to the closer of the two, and knocked. It took perhaps a minute for Kat to come to the door and admit me to her home. It was a minute of intense anticipation tinged with a little apprehension, rather like a teenager calling for his first date, back in the years of relative innocence.
The door opened, and she was standing there, a smile on her lips, yet not the same broad, beaming one which she had flashed at me in the restaurant, when my hand, almost involuntarily, gave her bottom a parting pat. It was impossible for me to tell what Kat was thinking now. She was smiling, but was it a nervous smile? The light in her eyes did suggest at least a slight air of excitement. Perhaps she was nervous about what lay ahead. "Come on in," she said, and stood back to let me pass.
I entered and found myself to be in a small space, what is commonly called a 'mud room' in rural communities such as ours. For those urban dwellers unfamiliar with the term, it means a moderately sized vestibule with a tough floor covering that needs little care. It's where one, coming from outdoors, can remove outer clothing and muddy boots or shoes before proceeding into the main house. There were hooks on one wall, convenient for hanging outer garments demanded by the Canadian climate at times, and appropriate shelving for outdoor boots and shoes. Kat turned and closed the door behind me and turned back, about to lead the way into the privacy of her home. She was dressed as I had seen her earlier in the restaurant and once again the pleated skirt emphasised, yet hid, the luscious curves that had captured my imagination. In the confined space, her hip brushed against mine, and the sensation was softly intense. This time, without pausing to consider whether the action was appropriate or not, I could not help placing my hand on her bottom, and with a gentle, yet firm pat, directed her to lead the way. The flickering smile once again became a beaming one, and the increased sparkle in her eyes for the moment was unmistakable. "Mmmm," she purred, wordlessly, and led the way.
We walked through a good-sized country kitchen, not exactly a farm kitchen, since the house was not a farmhouse, of course being in the town, but its construction had been started by an entrepreneur in the county who had grown up on a farm, and knew and appreciated the country ways. The kitchen, not the parlour or the living room, was the central gathering place and planned accordingly. Culinary activities took place along three walls of the room, where counters, cupboards, stove, refrigerator and modern appliances undreamed of in pioneer days were conveniently arranged. A large table of white pine stood in the centre, surrounded by solid, armless, chairs of the same native wood. At the head of the table was the one seat of distinction, a chair, slightly larger than the others and graced by arms. This was the place where casual family meals were served and where friends and neighbours might gather with family members for coffee or tea and a chat.
We didn't stop in the kitchen but I took it in at a quick glance. Thinking of the reason I had been invited here, the armless chairs reminded me of childhood moments spent under a firm palm and on serious occasions, an ominous hairbrush. I wondered if Kat had similar thoughts and memories. A number of rooms led off from the kitchen and a connecting hallway. To the right, side by side, were a formal dining room and a modern office, the latter once having served as the parlour, no doubt primly furnished in its heyday and used rarely, except to welcome the visiting rector or curate for tea, for wedding and christening celebrations, and as the place where coffins stood open on trestles for three days before the final trip to the church and churchyard. I could see that the other front door I'd been tempted to try opened from the veranda into that room.
The hall divided the dining room and office and contained the staircase that led to the upper floor of the house. Kat turned to the left, ignoring the two front rooms, and showed me the way into a large, airy room with a modern picture window overlooking an attractive garden where trees, shrubs and flower beds were tastefully laid out. My first impression of the room was that it had in recent times been enlarged by the addition of a section to the house. The furnishings were attractive, in no way ostentatious, and tastefully arranged to emphasise the space and make the best use of it and the view. There was not a great deal of furniture, and the primary seating arrangement was a large and obviously comfortable chesterfield from which there was an excellent sight line across the room to the big window and the outdoors beyond. There were appropriately placed occasional tables and a couple of chairs, along with the obligatory large-screen TV. Tasteful paintings, mainly of County scenes, adorned the walls, and a few bookcases added a pleasant warmth.
Kat, I should explain, earned part of her living at least as an interior decorator, and her ability and good taste showed clearly in the way she had arranged her own home. She was not wealthy, but had acquired some nice pieces both by inheritance and careful purchase over the years. Her home was not what one would consider a show place, but an attractive home, welcoming, warm in spirit and comfortable.
For a moment after entering the room, we stood side by side and once again our hips touched. Kat made no effort to move away but rather seemed to increase the pressure of her body against mine for a brief time. She allowed me a moment to take in and appreciate my surroundings. "Come," she said then, and I felt her hand pat my backside, "over here." I glanced sidelong at her and was rewarded by a wicked grin. "My turn," she said. She led the way to the couch and sat down near one end, then patted the cushion beside her in obvious invitation.
I joined her there and somehow again felt her softly firm body against me. "Well," I said, and for the moment could think of nothing more useful to say.
"Yes," was her response. Neither monosyllable made much sense yet somehow we both had an idea of what was on the other's mind, as well as our own. We were, of course, approaching the climactic moment of our day's odd drama, the time when past and present meld into a decision and then immediate future, and the decision would be one from which there was no turning back. In a sense we had made the decision over lunch but had also left the execution of it for later. 'Later' had arrived.
Kat and I were in her home where she had decided her spanking would take place. We both knew that the spanking was the only reason we were both here now in her living room. There was an incredible sensation of closeness, both physical and emotional, surrounding us, yet somehow conversation was stilted. It would take a few moments before we could clearly express what was on our minds. Kat leaned closer and rested her head on my shoulder. "Nervous?" I managed to say. I felt her head nod affirmatively on my shoulder, and in the natural way of things, I put my right arm about her and cuddled her a little. "Really?" I added somewhat inanely.
"Yes, George, but not scared or frightened. I could never be afraid of you."
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