Intensity: Moderate (for intensity details, see Fiction)
When Eric pulled my panties down I knew he was going to hurt me, but that didn’t stop me from almost climaxing then and there. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Glass, but this is what you deserve,” he said. All I was hearing was the huskiness in his voice. He had just finished his first year at the Naval Academy, where he learned about seamanship, leadership, and presumably about discipline, a word with more than one dictionary definition. He was in uniform and from my perch over his knees I could see the starched crease of the trousers and the high gloss of his shoes.
A military family
Eric was from a military family. His father, Sean, was a senior officer at the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado. We had been neighbors for years and I knew Sean well, although not as well as I would have liked. He was smart enough to play chess blindfolded; he was tough enough to leave Navy Seal trainees twenty years his junior in the dust on their grueling training exercises. He played football for the Academy in the 1980s and everyone called him Tank.
Eric, in contrast with his dad, was slender, with quick eyes and soft lips. His manners were impeccable and he always treated me with respect. I wasn’t surprised when he apologized for pulling down my panties.
The whole thing was my fault. There had been a problem the night before involving a lamppost and my car. I wasn’t even driving on the street. The skies had grown dark with one of those Southern California storms, so I went out to back my convertible from the driveway into the garage. Before I knew it, the lamppost darted into the way, and I could not avoid crunching a fender on it. There was a margarita involved.
He asked me a question
Eric came over the next morning to offer to give me a lift back from the body shop and asked me a question about the margarita, very respectfully but directly. And I lied to him. I shouldn’t have done that.
There are some lies that you plan ahead of time. Those are bad lies. This one was different, it was a lie that you blurt out and regret the instant it leaves your lips. And as soon as I said it, I searched for the right words to retrieve the lie, to retract it, to apologize for it and substitute a humbling truth in its place. Eric read my mind, the part about the lie, but he missed the part where I was going to undo it and make it all better. “Sometimes you’re just like a kid,” he observed. I looked down and nodded. Suddenly it was too late to undo the lie.
I had always been the responsible adult, but in this moment our roles were reversed. Even so, it’s hard to explain how we got from him scolding me to him spanking me. I think that part of it related to the chemistry between men and women and part had to do with the Academy’s emphasis on truthfulness.
An almost explicit invitation
And there was an almost explicit invitation on my part. When he was a teenager Eric used to come over in the afternoons, after school and before his dad came home from work, to do homework or just chat. I remember dropping a carton of eggs, watching the yellow matter ooze out of the carton onto my floor, and saying, “I need a spanking.” I didn’t really mean it, but Eric appeared to have filed that comment away for future use. Now he said, “Mrs. Glass, I believe you need a spanking just like you said.”
Did I need a spanking? Actually, yes, very much, please! Don’t get me started about the idle threats or promises of spankings I’d had over the years. Nobody ever spanked me hard enough to hurt, not even a little. I’d quit hoping. Eric was looking at me with a delightfully stern expression. Yes, dear God yes, spank me please!
There was one question, one reservation: was it right to let him spank me, to invite him to do so? Eric was an adult now, but there was still a substantial age difference. Part of my brain thought this would be too much of an older-woman-seduces-young-man scenario.
Part of my brain. A tiny part (it might have been the left hemisphere; I’m not sure) tried to draw my attention to this ethically important aspect of my behavior. Meanwhile the right, center, front and back hemispheres were furiously working to turn the possibility into reality. I tried to keep my face from reflecting my urgent desire as I groped for the right response.
What to say?
What should I say? “Don’t you dare” could be misinterpreted as “No.” If I said, “Please spank me” he could still say “No.” Finally I croaked, “You’re not strong enough to force me.” Bingo!
Eric stepped toward me with his jaw set. My knees went so weak that his firm grip on my arm was all that kept me from melting to the floor. And then I was over his lap. My summer dress was up and my panties down in about two seconds and his hard hand slammed into my unprotected bottom. As he spanked, he scolded me, commenting on the margarita, the moving lamppost, and the lie. He told me I needed to be punished and he put words into action. Thoroughly.
I had been eager to be spanked. I told you already how excited I was when he pulled my dress up and my panties down. But my excitement vanished in three slaps. In my fantasies being spanked was erotic; this spanking, however, was all about pain. It hurt, a harsh, penetrating, aggressive pain that I found almost impossible to tolerate. I had daydreamed about luxuriating in the sensations, but instead I gasped loudly, bucked up and down, and flailed my arms all to no avail. He held me tightly and spanked ever harder. This was not erotic. I wanted it to end!
Eric’s arm rose and fell with devastating effect all over my bare bottom. I wasn’t sure it if was worse when his hand laid fresh fire on an unspanked spot, or visited an area that had already been punished to bring its distress to a new peak. I was howling, my buttocks churning under the relentless assault, tears in my eyes as I gasped out unintelligible apologies and promises to reform. In response he paused long enough to yank my panties to my knees and began belaboring my sensitive thighs. I can’t even describe the suffering . . . don’t want to remember it to tell you about it.
Then he paused to lecture me, his hand resting on my scorched ass as I gasped and began to recover. As the agony ebbed, desire returned. My moans were not moans of pain; my hips still moved but in the ancient rhythms of pleasure. I ground my sopping pussy against his knee as discreetly as I could manage. I couldn’t help it.
A short fuse
Fortunately Eric seemed oblivious to this; I guessed that he had not had much experience with female sexual response. He continued to lecture me and give me the odd squeeze on the ass. I hadn’t been listening very closely, but my ears perked up when he said, firmly, “I am not sure you’ve been punished enough, maybe you need more spanking right now.” With these words he give me a very firm squeeze. My fuse hissed for a less than a millisecond. I was able to croak out an ambiguous “No!” and pretend that my movements were a response to his hand roughly squeezing my bottom as the orgasm hit.
And there we were, his threat hanging in the air, my orgasm ebbing away, when we heard a voice. Tank’s voice. He had come in quietly and was standing in the room.
“Son,” he said, “I don’t believe you are treating Mrs. Glass with respect.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” was all Eric replied.
“I think you’d best go home,” said Tank.
“Yes, sir.” Eric helped me off his lap and onto the floor where I kneeled gasping and disoriented. He walked out without another word, closing the door behind him.
Tank takes charge
Tank turned to me.
“Eric didn’t know what you were getting out of this little game, but I am no fool.”
I could not think of a thing to say.
“I would like him to learn about sex the old fashioned way. With girls his own age.”
I remained silent.
“I don’t know how this started, but the responsibility is yours. You’re twenty years older than him.”
I looked at the floor.
“Look at me.”
I forced myself to look up. I observed a man with the chest and arms of a defensive lineman and the scowl of someone who is Seriously Pissed. He went over to the window and closed it. On the way back he picked up a hairbrush from the end table.
“If you got that much pleasure from being spanked, obviously you weren’t spanked nearly hard enough,” he observed dryly. He sat down on the chair and reached for my arm.
Copyright (c) 2006 Doc Tsai