Saturday, January 08, 2005
On the elevator I try to pull myself together. I run a comb through my hair, take a couple of deep breaths and toss back yet another orange TicTac.
I reach the top floor and the elevator door opens. I've arrived, and so have the butterflies. I step out into the hallway and start looking for the correct room number. Ah, there it is, back in the corner.
I knock on the door and then I wait. I can hear something from inside the room, so I know there is someone inside, but the door remains closed. I begin to think that perhaps you didn't hear me knocking, so I raise my hand to knock again when the door opens. I don't see anyone, but I can see inside the room.
It looks like a conference room, a long table and uncomfortable looking chairs take up most of the space. There are floor to ceiling windows on the walls making up the outside corner of the room. It looks as though there is a nice view of the city if you are in the right spot.
You tell me to come in, and I enter the room. Once inside the door, I see a few things I had missed from the hallway. What looks like a fully equipped av setup, for videoconferencing. A small table just inside the door with what appears to be the only comfortable chair in the room next to it.
You walk out from behind the door and close it after me. I hear the lock engage, as I turn to look at you. You take my hand and lead me to the wall behind the door.
We hug, and you hold me so close it feels as though you never want to let go. I know I never do. You pull your head back far enough to look me in the eye, and place your hand on my shoulder. You apply just enough pressure to let me know what you want, and I sink to my knees.
You sit in the comfortable-looking chair, and you say, "Tell me everything that has happened since we were together last." I start to tell you about the car rental, and the paperwork, and the very helpful personnel, but you stop me, saying "No. Not just since this morning. Since we parted the last time."
Now I understand what you want. And I tell you. Everything. All the self-destructive things, all the mistakes, all the decisions. I tell you about the days I have been late, the one I missed, the times I was tempted to go to sleep without saying good night or to wrap myself up like a mummy against the weather rather than dressing for you. I tell you about the times I have wanted to comply and do as I have been instructed in the mornings, to start my day the way you like, but haven't been able to manage no matter how hard I tried. I tell you about how hard the holidays were, and how much I missed you.
I study the carpet as I tell you these things. I don't want to see the look of disappointment on yuor face when I tell you of my mistakes. I know you understand, that you don't expect perfection from anyone, but I hate the fact that I fail you sometimes. By the time I finish telling you everything I can remember, including any number of things you probably don't want to hear, I'm once again shaking so badly I can barely hold myself upright.
I continue, telling you about the rental agency. I have, I believe, made an impression. I hand you the paperwork while telling you about the girl at the counter. I tell you how helpful she was, how she gave me a far better car than I had reserved without an extra charge, how she had come over to my side of the counter and pointed things in the contract out that she thought I should read carefully. How she leaned over my shoulder while I signed.
Then I hand you the card I received and tell you about the gentleman, the clipboard, the pen. I tell you about his offer to help me if I found that I needed anything, his request that I call him if I wanted a rental in the future.
I look up at you at the end of my recitation, and you are smiling.
You get up and approach me, and you reach out and take my hand. You help me up, and hold me until the shaking is under control. You lead me by the hand to the conference table and bend me over it. You lift the back of my skirt run your hand over my behind and tell me that this is just for those things I may have forgotten to tell you about, the little things that might spring to mind later and prey on me unless I know they've been dealt with. This is to take care of them. The larger transgressions will be dealt with later.
You back away from me and pick something up. I can't see exactly what it is from where I am, but I have a good idea. You keep me waiting. The wait intensifies my anticipation and fear of what is to come. I know it won't be the kind of spanking I asked you for a few months ago. It will be one to punish my mistakes, to remind me (as though I need reminding) how completely I belong to you.
I hear the cane swish through the air and I jump as it makes contact with my flesh. Again and again you swing, until I am in tears and you are satisfied that the stripes on my ass will remind me of this every time I sit down for days.
You put the cane away and come to me, taking me in your arms until the tears stop. You gently kiss my forehead, and let me know that the remainder of my punishment will not take place for at least a couple of days. You want me to feel everything, to experience each separate sensation, so that while we are apart, I will always remember.
You comfort me, stroking my hair and back, taking your time and making me ache for more with every touch. I wrap my arms around you, pulling you closer to me. I slip a hand inside the back of your jeans, touching your skin. You respond by reaching inside my blouse and pulling out one tit, holding and rubbing and pinching the nipple until I start to moan and bury my face in your shoulder. I use my other hand to unzip your pants, reaching inside for you. I start to free you from your pants when you unbutton them and they slide to the floor. Now I can feel you, and I want to taste you so badly that I almost pull away from your fingers. I look into your eyes, and you can read the question in mine. You nod, and I slip to my knees again.
I reach the top floor and the elevator door opens. I've arrived, and so have the butterflies. I step out into the hallway and start looking for the correct room number. Ah, there it is, back in the corner.
I knock on the door and then I wait. I can hear something from inside the room, so I know there is someone inside, but the door remains closed. I begin to think that perhaps you didn't hear me knocking, so I raise my hand to knock again when the door opens. I don't see anyone, but I can see inside the room.
It looks like a conference room, a long table and uncomfortable looking chairs take up most of the space. There are floor to ceiling windows on the walls making up the outside corner of the room. It looks as though there is a nice view of the city if you are in the right spot.
You tell me to come in, and I enter the room. Once inside the door, I see a few things I had missed from the hallway. What looks like a fully equipped av setup, for videoconferencing. A small table just inside the door with what appears to be the only comfortable chair in the room next to it.
You walk out from behind the door and close it after me. I hear the lock engage, as I turn to look at you. You take my hand and lead me to the wall behind the door.
We hug, and you hold me so close it feels as though you never want to let go. I know I never do. You pull your head back far enough to look me in the eye, and place your hand on my shoulder. You apply just enough pressure to let me know what you want, and I sink to my knees.
You sit in the comfortable-looking chair, and you say, "Tell me everything that has happened since we were together last." I start to tell you about the car rental, and the paperwork, and the very helpful personnel, but you stop me, saying "No. Not just since this morning. Since we parted the last time."
Now I understand what you want. And I tell you. Everything. All the self-destructive things, all the mistakes, all the decisions. I tell you about the days I have been late, the one I missed, the times I was tempted to go to sleep without saying good night or to wrap myself up like a mummy against the weather rather than dressing for you. I tell you about the times I have wanted to comply and do as I have been instructed in the mornings, to start my day the way you like, but haven't been able to manage no matter how hard I tried. I tell you about how hard the holidays were, and how much I missed you.
I study the carpet as I tell you these things. I don't want to see the look of disappointment on yuor face when I tell you of my mistakes. I know you understand, that you don't expect perfection from anyone, but I hate the fact that I fail you sometimes. By the time I finish telling you everything I can remember, including any number of things you probably don't want to hear, I'm once again shaking so badly I can barely hold myself upright.
I continue, telling you about the rental agency. I have, I believe, made an impression. I hand you the paperwork while telling you about the girl at the counter. I tell you how helpful she was, how she gave me a far better car than I had reserved without an extra charge, how she had come over to my side of the counter and pointed things in the contract out that she thought I should read carefully. How she leaned over my shoulder while I signed.
Then I hand you the card I received and tell you about the gentleman, the clipboard, the pen. I tell you about his offer to help me if I found that I needed anything, his request that I call him if I wanted a rental in the future.
I look up at you at the end of my recitation, and you are smiling.
You get up and approach me, and you reach out and take my hand. You help me up, and hold me until the shaking is under control. You lead me by the hand to the conference table and bend me over it. You lift the back of my skirt run your hand over my behind and tell me that this is just for those things I may have forgotten to tell you about, the little things that might spring to mind later and prey on me unless I know they've been dealt with. This is to take care of them. The larger transgressions will be dealt with later.
You back away from me and pick something up. I can't see exactly what it is from where I am, but I have a good idea. You keep me waiting. The wait intensifies my anticipation and fear of what is to come. I know it won't be the kind of spanking I asked you for a few months ago. It will be one to punish my mistakes, to remind me (as though I need reminding) how completely I belong to you.
I hear the cane swish through the air and I jump as it makes contact with my flesh. Again and again you swing, until I am in tears and you are satisfied that the stripes on my ass will remind me of this every time I sit down for days.
You put the cane away and come to me, taking me in your arms until the tears stop. You gently kiss my forehead, and let me know that the remainder of my punishment will not take place for at least a couple of days. You want me to feel everything, to experience each separate sensation, so that while we are apart, I will always remember.
You comfort me, stroking my hair and back, taking your time and making me ache for more with every touch. I wrap my arms around you, pulling you closer to me. I slip a hand inside the back of your jeans, touching your skin. You respond by reaching inside my blouse and pulling out one tit, holding and rubbing and pinching the nipple until I start to moan and bury my face in your shoulder. I use my other hand to unzip your pants, reaching inside for you. I start to free you from your pants when you unbutton them and they slide to the floor. Now I can feel you, and I want to taste you so badly that I almost pull away from your fingers. I look into your eyes, and you can read the question in mine. You nod, and I slip to my knees again.
