An Apparition... Appears

The story was entirely inspired by Penelope Hasler over at her blog, Naughty Little Writer (penelopehasler.blogspot.com) – but you probably know that because you probably came from there.  And if you did you also know that she's a talented writer, intelligent, nice, enthusiastic and an interesting combination of confident and modest, outgoing in some ways and shy in others.  Because of this last bit I've never seen a picture of her, though every indication is that she's an attractive young woman as well - all in all just the sort to inspire tail-warming tale-telling.

Introduction

The miles slid under John's car one after another, his weekly trek to spend Friday at his company's satellite office having become routine within a half-dozen trips which by now was months ago.  The dips and rises and curves made the much-shorter rural route more tolerable than the interstate and happily this particular automobile balanced handling and comfort to make the dips and rises and curves more tolerable as well.  Luxurious enough to impress clients, sporty enough to carve up mountain roads at impressively dangerous speeds – and just old enough to be within John's reach – he once more smiled slightly with satisfaction at the choice.  As for the bright red, he regretted the look of a screaming mid-life crisis, but one can't always be choosy when shopping the used-car market and in any case it was entirely appropriate for the "young gun" financial advisor.

This leg of the trip was usually visually enjoyable if monotonous, especially in the early spring as greenery draped the fields and hillsides.  Today, however, nature was exacting its price for all this new growth with a misting rain and skyful of low gray clouds, unsubstantial yet oppressive.  Never one to test his luck with the highway patrol in any case – no matter how backwater the route seemed – John dropped his speed a bit further, only unleashing his machine to blast past the occasional farm vehicle or doddering sightseer.  His thoughts roamed from the CD that was playing to the day's business news to financial calculations to plans for a belated dinner, mentally killing off the journey like a hockey team kills a penalty, alert but resting.

Even in good weather, though, he could not have stopped in time; John slammed on the brakes, pressing himself back in the seat even as the four wide tires fought for a grip on the wet pavement.  Realizing that the slow-motion, onrushing collision could not, was not to be avoided, he screamed, he braced, he even closed his eyes.  He could not bear to watch.

Thrown forward, restrained back, jerked sideways, John opened his eyes to find that the airbags had not gone off.  Untouched – just barely - by the car's front bumper loomed the beautiful apparition that had caused his fright, standing seemingly indifferent to the nearness of death.  Sitting on the horse was a woman.

“What the hell?” John roared as he regained his senses.  “Are you crazy?”

Apparently he had been loud enough for the woman to hear him even outside the car and atop her mount, a gorgeous black stallion standing it seemed about 22 hands high and dripping with more gleaming black leather straps than raindrops.  The sprite-like woman in his saddle turned her head toward John and attempted to focus a glassy-eyed gaze.  “Oh my God! Where did you come from?”

“Come from? Come from?” yelled John, climbing out of the car nearly shaking from the scare.  “I was driving down the highway that you just rode into! You can kill yourself for all I care, but take better care of your horse!” With this charge the young woman looked like she’d burst into tears and John wondered whether she was all right after all - being unfazed by a near-fatal accident was not necessarily a sign of extraordinary composure.  Reflexively he continued to respond out of anger and fright.   “I’ve got half a mind to report you.  What’s your name?”

“Janae Ryder,” came her defensive reply after a substantial pause.  “And just who do you think you are?”

“I'm John MacLeod, the man who barely avoided running you over and killing all three of us.” Looking around, John could see what most likely had happened – a horse path curved near the highway with two small breaks in the fencing.   A section that normally separated the openings was missing – taken out, presumably, by a recent accident.  John imagined that the horse, close to the road, had been turned directly into his lane, though he couldn’t fathom why.  “Janae Ryder, of Ryder Farms?” John asked almost rhetorically.  Ryder Farms owned about half of the surrounding countryside – or, more precisely, exactly half, everything north of the road for as far as the eye could see.

“You’ve heard of us, then.  And I’ll ask what you were doing, speeding across our land, clearly out of control? Is there any reason I shouldn’t report you, driving recklessly or even drunk?”

At this reply John seethed but controlled his temper at the thought that she might even be drugged.  By no means a teen, the possibility was still plenty plausible even into her late twenties – especially a rich girl, probably no job, big-city life visiting the old homestead… “I was neither out of control nor on your property,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even.  “Look how far you were into the roadway, doesn’t that tell you something?”

"I'm sure I was using no more of the road than I have every right to until you came along in your irresponsible rush to get wherever it is you think you need to be going."

John's pretending to remain calm was actually causing him to relax in reality and he considered another approach.  A snort from the agitated animal drew his attention.  “That’s a marvelous stallion you have there, Ms.  Ryder – must be the pride of the stable.  Your father’s, I suppose.” It was a horse for a tall man and though she controlled him admirably, she would be better served by a much smaller mount.

“Erm, Midnight is his favorite, you might say – though I have every right to ride him, if you’re insinuating something.”

Somehow, suddenly, it all became clear.  Whether John had a suspicious nature or just keen powers of observation, the crop, the tight reins, her attitude both distracted and tense – even the fact that they’d been headed to the barn.  “Forgive me for insinuating, Janae.  Perhaps I’ll just have a word with Mr.  Ryder, let him know how you’ve been treating his horse.”

Guiltily, the woman before him blushed scarlet, color flushing across her pale rosy skin like a beacon of culpability.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, do I need to spell it out?"  Her reaction had only served to embolden him.  "You’ve been ‘touching him up,’ haven’t you? Teasing him?” John imagined her atop a fifteen-hundred pound vibrator set on ‘high’ and ‘pulse.’

“How dare you suggest that! I would never do such a thing.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, then.  I’m sure Mr.  Ryder knows you far better than I do.  I’ll just suggest it to him and if he chooses to believe you…” With that John turned back to his car – though not very quickly.  As he expected, a hand grabbed his shoulder from on high.

“No – wait.  There’s no need to… to bother him…” Now she was staring in wide-eyed wonder as if he’d just read her mind, looked right into her.

“Get down and we can talk about it,” John told her, and while he’d been enjoying surveying her fine strong legs and lovely seat – well-muscled but a bit padded at the same time – watching her dismount was a pleasure in itself.  Small, rather slight rather than slender, she was still very clearly a woman, her feminine curves more suggested that overt.  She was attractive despite her minimal make-up – not at all, in fact, the glamour he expected from a still-spoiled one-time debutante.  He gallantly offered an unneeded hand and found her grip strong and her hands rather rougher than he expected. 

“Please, Mister – MacLeod, is it?” She placed her hand beseechingly on the sleeve of his sports coat.  “I don’t need a row at the house – surely you understand that? There’s some other way, perhaps?”

Plucking the crop from her rein hand, his mind raced with possibilities.  Unlikely – highly unlikely – possibilities, but not impossibilities, ‘perhaps.’

“Maybe what you need, young lady, is to have someone straddle your back and use this crop on you, just as you've been using it.” Before her open mouth could manage a sound, he continued, “Wanting to move forward, being held back… Rising agitation…Turning to desperation…” He fought back a smile as he watched Janae’s eyes shine and her breathing stop.  “Learning just how it feels…” he continued in a low voice, “Having to be taught…”

Arranging a Lesson

“Maybe what you need, young lady, is to have someone straddle your back and use this crop on you, just as you've been using it.” Before her open mouth could manage a sound, he continued, “Wanting to move forward, being held back… Rising agitation…Turning to desperation…” He fought back a smile as he watched Janae’s eyes shine and her breathing stop.  “Learning just how it feels…” he continued in a low voice, “Having to be taught…”

 “Mr.  Ryder… my father…”

“Then he wouldn’t need to know, would he?”

“No?”

“Not if I was satisfied that you had learned your lesson– and you were, as well.  Do you think… we might… be satisfied?” Seldom if ever have I seen a heaving bosom, John thought, but the tight jacket of a riding costume displays it quite nicely, even in its understated proportion.

“I think… we might…” she breathed.

“Not a trivial undertaking,” John warned.

“No… of course not…”

“We’d need privacy.  And time.”

“I need to get Midnight back to the barn… no one else will be there…”

“No one else expecting you?”

“No…”

“Ride back to the barn – how far is it?”

“Two miles on the path.  By road you can turn in at the sign?” Janae asked, and John nodded.  “Right turn half a mile on and you’ll see it, though it’s a ways.”

“I should still get there before you, shouldn’t I?”

It was her turn to nod.  “If you could park behind the sports ute? You’ll see it.”

“You won’t need the crop, not going back – as you well know,” John scolded, pleased to see another blush.  “Not until we get to the barn, at least.  Now get going, and hurry – I’ll be timing you.”

“Yes, sir,” Janae whispered, and John sent her on her way with a solid slap on her firm seat.  Yummmm, he thought.

*****

Naughty little rich girl, John thought to himself as he headed barnward, shaking the accumulated mist out of his hair.  Would she show? Or was this an elaborate escape? He could always make good on his threat - though he’d never met the famous landowner, his company surely had a phone contact for him.  Not really his style and not very satisfying, though…

Once through the gate the road turned to gravel and he slowed, watching for the turn he knew was still a long ways off.  Switching on his fog lights, he slowed further, afraid he’d missed it – and felt foolish at how obvious it was when it appeared, a dirt road but wide enough for two-way traffic.  He scanned the green countryside for the barn, halfway expecting there to be none, but it, like the turning, was large and readily visible, the size of a small hangar.  Still, the chance that Ryder Farms had two horse barns was a very good one and he had no guarantee that she’d show up here – no guarantee other than her breathless attention, an almost palpable ache.  Palpable, yes.  He could almost taste her desire.

Approaching the barn John saw the front of the vehicle Janae had referred to – a late-model but very muddy SUV – and he navigated his way carefully around to park behind it, smiling as he realized that this left him hidden from sight in every direction.  Now if she just shows up, he thought, exiting the car with crop in hand.  She’d better hurry – my plans get more evil by the minute.

The clouds were clearing in the west, extending the light, and as he approached the corner of the barn he could see her approaching, lit by the low angle of the sun.  The black of the horse, her boots, coat, and cap left only the beige of her jodhpurs and the white of her blouse like a blaze on the massive beast’s forehead.  As he caught sight of the barn he broke into a gallop, his rider giving him free rein until even her pink face was visible and, closer in, John could detect the relaxed, confident expression of an expert fully enjoying her journey.  Have to handle this one carefully, John thought – she had hardly been confident under his stern gaze.  The right amount of scolding, the right amount of encouragement…

Though Janae must have seen him – even back-lit – from some distance off, she didn’t look directly at him on her whole approach – or if she did, John didn’t catch her at it.  She rode up almost as if he wasn’t there, stopping, dismounting, searching for keys before looking at John for the first time.  “I’m going to… have to… put him up,” she apologized.  “The stable-girl isn’t here right now.”

John waved the crop lazily as she blushed and dropped her gaze.  “Okay,” he said.

Though it was dry, inside the barn was not much warmer than outside despite what John estimated to be over fifteen horses, each seemingly more beautiful than the last.  Shed of her jacket and hat, John watched her as she worked, studying every stretch, reach and bend as her short thick ponytail danced counterpoint behind her.  She was not lacking in grace and did not shirk her duties, which she carried out with a practiced efficiency and economy of movement.  Rich or not, she’d been raised properly – or almost.  But we’ll correct that single deficiency, John thought.  His own jacket was quite damp and he briefly considered removing it but he expected that it gave him a formal air and would even moreso when she was naked so he kept it on.  Each time she came near she looked at him, returning his smile before self-consciously looking away.

He noticed as she slowed a bit, looking around more, moving with less purpose.  He moved in close, saying softly “Close enough” and smiling at the way his voice made her jump.  “Let’s find some blankets,” he suggested – the dirt floor might be fine on a warmer evening but the damp and chill limited its appeal – “and get you out of those clothes.”

“Out?” Janae squeaked.  She stood close, head and voice lowered.  John touched her throat with the tip of the crop and drew wide esses down into her blouse.  She looked at him quickly, as if startled, but didn’t move to stop him. 

“What did Midnight have on when you were cropping him, young lady?” John asked softly.

“Oh…”

A Room Up Above

“What did Midnight have on when you were cropping him, young lady?” John asked softly.

“Oh…”

“Midnight had a saddle…” Janae started, sounding not-very-hopeful.  “With a cinch… I should get to keep my bra on,” she bargained.

The analogy seemed a fair one but John had other thoughts. “You won’t be wearing a saddle, that’s for sure, nor want to be,” though for a moment the idea appealed to him somehow. “Tell you what,” John offered, pinching the crop between thumb and forefinger, raising and angling it downward beneath her first button, “You can keep your bra or your blouse – not both – and if your blouse, unbuttoned.” He was no stranger to women being more self-conscious about their belly than their breasts, thanks to modern media and midriff-baring thirteen-year-olds, even a woman with what appeared to be a quite lovely waist. “One,” he intoned, using the crop fob inside her blouse to push her bra strap toward her shoulder, “or… the other.” Again she swallowed visibly, not expressing a choice, and, withdrawing the crop, John moved down the row of stalls toward the tack room.

“Ah….” Inhaling deeply, John took in the rich smell of well-oiled leather softened by use and darkened by sweat. An entire stack of saddle blankets sat on a counter and the walls were hung with more straps and reins than he could use in two dozen of the best spankings. Had he been dissatisfied with the crop he was holding he could have exchanged it for a whip of similar length or a different crop with a little leather hand, or one with a loop or several other designs. The room was small; warmer, but cluttered and crowded. Janae had followed him inside and he closed on her, wrapping his hand around her ponytail. “I won’t need to put a bit in your mouth, will I?”

“Oh, no sir,” she assured him, dropping her head and her voice to whisper, “Please, sir.”

“Good to hear. Now.” He turned her to face the tool bench. Rather obviously a bench brush sat atop it, a long narrow wooden brush with an even narrower flat section to its back. As a substitute for a hairbrush it would be an admirable chastiser. “Is Janae a good boss?” he began slowly, his mouth right at the top of her ear. “Is she kind to the stable-girl? Does she appreciate how much of this work she doesn’t have to do herself? Not a spoiled little princess, I certainly hope…”

“Not… no… not too bad… maybe when she has friends around…”

“Oh? What happens then?” John demanded.

“Not so much any more… she used to… just sometimes… be a bit mean, maybe… just… you know, wanting to show off?”

“But all done now, fortunately. Nothing that needs taking care of,” he clarified, making the question a statement of fact.

“Not very often. Not like before. Just once in awhile.”

“Just once in awhile? Even now?” John felt the quick slight nod of her head as much as he saw it as she tugged against the tension of her hair. “Not good.”

“Um no, um, not good.”

“I may have to come back for that, may I not?”

“Might,” she agreed in a tiny voice, her knees shaking, her thighs pressed together.

“But not tonight,” he assured her. “Plenty enough to do tonight.” With this he slapped her bottom pleasantly, possessively.

“Yes,” the poor little rich girl again agreed.

“Yes?” he questioned in a mock growl, landing a matching spank on her other cheek.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s better,” John praised as he released her, ran the crop down the front of her thigh and turned to the counter. “Here are some blankets.” Eyeing a saddle stand with mixed satisfaction and the crowded floor with less he considered their options. The room was the right mix of earthy and sheltered but they might have to settle for center of the stable, he thought, moving back to the door.

“The stable-girl has a room here,” Janae volunteered rather suddenly, clearly desiring even more shelter, wisely seeking greater privacy. “It’s up above. She’s not here and… well, I know where she keeps a spare key.”

“Oh you do, do you? What’s ‘up above?’”

“The stairway’s outside,” she explained. “I could go up… I wouldn’t want you to see.”

“See?” John asked. He still intended – and expected – to ‘see’ everything, quite completely.

“The hiding place,” she explained.

“Ah….” Yes, that made sense. The idea that she was backing out, planning an escape, had flitted across his mind, though he wasn’t sure why, or, that is to say, why now if not before. She’d been in a daze of arousal when he first saw her and clearly enjoyed being under his command. Still, wanting to secure command of the situation he thought it best to keep the initiative. “All right, you go up, get the key, open the door, and get back down here. I’m going to count to thirty, slowly, and you will be back before I’m done. Understood?”

“Why don’t you just wait, then come up?” she asked reasonably.

“You will be back, standing in front of me, before I am done. Is that clear, young lady?”

She bowed her head most prettily, breathing a near-silent “yes, sir.”

“And Janae? You’ll thank our friend the stable-girl for her generosity on her return, won’t you?”

“Oh yes sir, absolutely.”

“Good. Now off you go.”

She bolted for the door and true to his word he began to count, very slowly. No doubt she’d want to make sure the place was tidy enough to avoid embarrassment on anyone’s part, he thought. And there’s one more thing I need from the tack room after all.

***** 

Her boots on the stairs gave him plenty of notice of her return and he counted aloud from twenty five. Janae heard ‘twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight’ as she rushed through the door, breathless despite being appearing accustomed to exercise. “Good girl,” John told her and she beamed briefly before dropping her head once more. “If everything’s in order we’ll start with your jacket,” he told her, extending a hand.

“My jacket?”

John smiled as she started to remove it without waiting for his answer. “Yes, it’d be better to leave your clothes down here. Frame of mind is very important.”

“All of them?”

“Well, not your blouse. I stand by my offer, unless you think it will help you to go without it.”

“Oh, no, sir. Please, sir, I’d like to keep it on,” she begged, implicitly agreeing to discard the rest.

“Unbuttoned,” he reminded her.

“If I have to…”

“You do. Or off entirely. Boots next.”

Perching herself on a crate, Janae pulled off one long black boot and then the other, standing them against the wall. “Socks, too,” he reminded her. Standing in her bare feet her height was all the more noticeable, her posture all the more pronounced. She blushed once again at the appreciative look that tugged at John’s features. “And?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

“These?”

“Please.”

After a moment of fumbling Janae managed to release the waist of her twill jodhpurs but her progress remained slow. John chided softly, “You haven’t forgotten why you’re having to do this, have you, Janae?”

“No sir,” she replied rather piteously, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not me you need to apologize to, now is it, young lady?”

“I mean I’m sorry for being so slow.”

“Just focus on what you’re doing – and why.”

With another ‘yes, sir’ her riding breeches finally came down and as John had suspected they had not flattered her – nor would they anyone, he surmised. This progress, however, did little to dispel Janae’s anxiety.

“Turn around,” he told her magnanimously. “I’ll hold your blouse.” It seemed that she found his offer oddly reassuring and she moved quickly to comply, opening her buttons, letting him lift her blouse off of her shoulders as she pulled her arms free, reaching behind to release the hooks of her narrow bra band. Clasping one arm to her breasts she pulled the other free of its strap, her hand quickly diving back into the protection of her sleeve before repeating the process on the first side, all with an impressive degree of modesty. Even if it was primarily on principle - and temporary at that.

With this success and the long shirttails touching her thighs, getting out of her panties was less of a production even while one hand was employed securing her blouse. She had turned again and John steadied her by the shoulders as she worked them down to mid-thigh, one leg at a time. From there she let gravity do its part, stepping out of them and picking them up with her toes.

“Put them in the pocket of your pants – we don’t want anyone finding them lying around, do we?”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed, “I mean, no sir. I mean…”

“Hush. Door. Stairs.”

A Slow Start

Even with the shirttails, following Janae up the stairs made John’s mouth ache, the slight tan of her calves fading quickly to pure white, her complexion taking on a translucent quality as it rose on her thighs and met the cotton of her blouse which, draped over the slight swell of her bottom, curtained his soon-to-be target. Similarly the firmness of her calves acquired a softness as his gaze progressed upward, with his mind’s eye filling in its natural conclusion. Each step was dramatic; tempting and teasing, full of mystery and promise, nearly but never revealing. John could tell by the restrained spring her step that she would normally climb these stairs two at a time - an image that made his tongue curl with longing - but she had no intention of being that brazen this evening. It must be dark in there, he concluded, she’s in a hurry to get inside, out from under these lights – before he realized how chilly she might be. That would also explain why, when reaching the door at the top, she shielded her breasts from his gaze with her arm - her nipples were probably stabbing at her blouse. Standing two steps below her John ran the crop up the back of her thigh, raising her shirttail an inch, and she looked back at him, grinning widely before blushing and turning away.

“Shying,” he thought to himself. When a horse does that it’s called shying. John smiled yet again. “In you go.”

*****

He’d been right on both counts – the room was dim and a heater was working hard, dispelling the chill. John guessed that the small space would soon be hot which suited him fine. Looking around he smiled at the harsh clash of styles and the story it told – the construction industrial, the furniture rough-hewn and rustic, with only a thin sheen of feminine decorating to soften the inherent – and inherited, he figured – masculinity. Across the room a miniature kitchen looked out on the approach road through a window suited to a camping trailer, which explained why he hadn’t noticed it. To the right was a low twin bed with a white floral cover, hurriedly made, and above it two windows managed to provide a decent view, or would in daylight.

Between a low couch re-covered by a light decorative blanket and a wide low pine dresser holding a small TV was just enough room for one of the room’s two area rugs.  It seemed to John to be the least intrusive place for them.

“She won’t be coming back?” John checked.

“Oh no. She’s gone – all week.”

“Until Monday? Or Friday?” he challenged. She didn’t sound too sure and it was Thursday evening. He didn’t want her showing up early, interrupting them.

“Until Monday – Sunday night, I guess.”

“We’re all set then, aren’t we?” Setting the blankets on the edge of the couch he stepped closer.  His hand was again around her ponytail and his voice again took on that whisper quality. “And ready to address your behavior. Which has been more than just inappropriate, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied quietly, nodding.

“Not even merely unacceptable, though it has certainly been unacceptable, hasn’t it?”

No words this time, just a nod.

“It’s been appalling, hasn’t it, young lady? But not just that… it’s been surprising, I would guess. Not what anyone would expect of you, would they?”

A small shake of her head, restrained by his grip.

“How would people feel if they knew? If they were told what you’d been up to – if you had to tell them what I found you doing today?”

Even with his hold on her she managed to turn her head to look at him, wide-eyed. “Sir… please… I couldn’t…”

“Disappointed? Disappointed in you?” Now that she’d turned he held her facing him as she tried to look away. Even as she did she nodded once more. “Say it. Tell me.”

“Please, sir!” she raised her eyes back to his but found him unrelenting. “They would be disappointed in me.”

“For what you did.”

“For what I did.”

“But we’ll see that you won’t want to do it again, won’t we?”

Trembling and near tears she gave a final nod.

“Get down on your hands and knees,” John commanded.

 

*****

“Get down on your hands and knees,” John commanded and she quickly complied, sitting on her heels, hugging herself. He knelt on one knee and guided her over his left thigh, level in front of her, coaxing her farther and farther forward until the tops of her thighs pressed the inside of his own. “We’ll start like this, since you’ve been such a naughty young lady and played such a naughty, childish game. It will give you time to think about what you’ve done and how you got yourself here.” With his left hand on her far hip he snugged her firmly into his lap, his arousal not yet hard enough to alarm her despite the luxurious availability of her soft bare skin, sun-kissed and white from a variety of summer outfits. Her bottom was uniformly the palest white – for the moment – no thong bikinis for this girl. Her thighs crushed together with frantic modesty though a slight breadth of her cleft precluded complete concealment of her pretty pink bud. John began to slap her cheeks, rhythmically, alternating spanks.

“Don’t squirm, this doesn’t hurt,” he scolded in response to her movements, “It’s just your embarrassment, and rightfully so. Spanked like a little girl, your bottom bare and up and inviting what it deserves, you’re right to be ashamed. Treating Midnight like that – you were taught better as a child, I know you were – now you have to be reminded? Your bottom ought to burn, but what’s burning you right now is your shame and I hope it’s not the shame of being caught, it had better be the shame of what you have been doing, caught or not.” The spanks continued to fall, firm without being hard but impossible to ignore, easily absorbed by her bottom which was likewise firm without being hard but impossible to ignore. “Your bottom’s getting as pink as a girl found out sneaking candy or telling a fib, probably a fib to get out of a spanking just like this one.” John’s hand was cupped to merge with her bottom more than attack it; he knew he could easily make these hurt deeply or sting intolerably but that was not his intent. Every few swats he would flatten his hand and land one across both cheeks, centered, drawing a sharp little gasp in response, but he doubted it was a gasp of pain. The rest fell just off center, low to one side or the other, connecting more than physically, communicating his disapproval. “I want you to take the time to think, think of what you’ve been doing, what I caught you doing, and how long ago you learned not to act that way. It was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply, and those two short words so combined a whine, a whimper, a throaty growl and a moan that the cauldron of her feelings was unmistakable.

“You thought you’d gotten too big to be spanked like this, didn’t you, young lady?”

“Yes, sir,” she repeated, adding a note of desperation – of need? For escape?

“You thought only the saddle would be pinking your naughty grown-up bottom, didn’t you?”

“Please, sir…”

“And now you’ve found out differently, haven’t you? A pair of jodhpurs won’t keep this bottom safe, will they?”

“No, sir.”

“Or even covered?”

“No…”

“Not jodhpurs, not jeans, not even pretty panties… not if you’ve been misbehaving; not if you’ve been doing things you know you shouldn’t.” Even if his logic had not been sound the continued spanks, firmer and firmer as she grew accustomed to them, could not be argued with. Hips flexing in response to their rhythm, she soaked them up like a garden under a long-awaited rain. John shifted his free hand from her hip to her far shoulder, pressing her backward into his swats, sensing her breasts rocking, her throat opening as she raised her head and with this he knew her embarrassment was abandoning her, leaving her with only abandon. It would soon be time to stop – and move on.

The spanks slowed and her breathing continued to get deeper, her movements more pronounced. When he stopped John kept his hand just below her tailbone, smoothing it down over her pinkened cheeks. “I think that’s enough of this childish treatment, don’t you, young lady?” he asked. After a few long sighing breaths he heard the expected reply. “Though you acted like a naughty child and had to be spanked like a naughty child, you’re not a naughty child at all, are you?”

“No, sir. I… I’m not.”

“Then it’s time to address you as a grown woman. And as such your behavior was no more acceptable, was it?”

“No, sir, it wasn’t. I’m… sorry.”

“That’s good to hear and a very good start. Now I need you to sit up,” he told her, raising her with a hand under her shoulder. Instinctively she covered herself though her blouse gapped invitingly. John pressed his leg against her before rising – having established contact he was loath to break it. He withdrew a length of leather from his pocket, not concealing it from her. It was long but narrow, like a dog collar but much longer and perforated along its length with a small buckle at one end. He let it hang from his fingers and brush the rug, or nearly so.

“I brought this up from the stable,” he said, “I think it will suit us quite well.”

A Little Focus

“I think it will suit us quite well.” John suppressed a smile at the young woman’s obvious terror as her eyes darted from the crop to the slender strap and back. It surprised and amused him how clearly he could read her emotions, her hazel-green eyes deep and guileless, her light skin brightening on her cheeks and at her throat, visible even in the low light. After a most thorough but carefully delivered spanking the strap he held would be vicious indeed – had his intent been anything like she feared. Instead, shifting both instruments to one hand, he reached in his pocket and produced a handkerchief – uncommon these days but something he found to be uncommonly useful.

“I want you to focus,” John told her and once again she blushed guiltily. Clearly her focus had not been on improving her behavior though – while John had no intention of telling her – he wanted it right where it had been during her spanking. “I want you to watch yourself, but without a mirror. I’m going to blindfold you and I’ll fasten it with this. Inside your head I want you to see just what it is you are feeling – from all different perspectives and angles.” The mention of angles just seemed to make her blush more deeply and he continued. “Also, I’m going to hold your head up while I’m cropping you – just like you did with Midnight, didn’t you? And I don’t want you distracted by looking around.” John knew that if she was not watching him watching her it’d be easier to modulate her embarrassment with his voice alone, to segregate an understandable disapproval of her behavior from any perceived (and wholly erroneous) disapproval of her body. And all his persuasions were unnecessary, not only because she had no intention of opposing him in any case – he had, in fact, read her correctly and she was only too anxious to have her eyes covered. John watched her feelings about the strap turn from anxiety to relief.

Draping the white cloth over her nose and tucking the crop under one arm, John circled the long strap around her head, first flipping her ponytail up so that it was caught under it. This way he could hold her hair with two fingers each above and below the strap, controlling her even further. As she waited, kneeling bolt upright and still hugging her blouse closed, he fixed the buckle with a momentary pinch. “I want you down on your elbows,” he told her softly, “palms up, fingers touching.” It was a difficult position to rise out of. With the crop again in one hand, the other holding her head, he positioned her with “forward a little,” reminding her “I need to be able to reach your bottom, down here” as the crop showed her where “down here” was. “Good girl.”

Having posed her to suit him he threw his leg across her back, planting his foot inside her elbow, calf firm against her side as he bent to where he could keep his hand low and her head up, his wrist resting within the fashionable keyhole that opened below her collar in the back, between her shoulder- blades. His other calf he shifted over until it, too, pressed her firmly.

The crop landed lightly on the outside of her right hip and he jerked her head back just slightly, correcting her even if she had not shifted forward. A second smack followed, and a third. John kept them light, knowing that it was not a pleasant place to be struck – then landed one harder and, shifting his weight, exaggerating her movement as she jerked to her left. “Move your knees, if you would – I don’t want you toppling me” - not that she would have – “a little more, please, just to be safe.” While it may have kept him safe from being toppled, it certainly was not a safe posture for the woman under the crop and she wouldn’t need a mirror to recognize how exposed she was. The smacks moved around to her cheek and became more pronounced, eliciting short gasps and small sounds from his immobile mount. Some of the strokes were hard.

“Struck and powerless to do anything about it – a new sensation for you, I expect.” As John said this he leaned close to her ear, letting his tie hang over her shoulder and run along her neck, touching his forehead to her hair. “A frustrating feeling and” – as the smacks continued – “not one you can just choose to stop. Can you?” He was not sure she’d answer, that she was capable of speech, so far away seemed her focus. “See yourself. See the crop land,” a vision he facilitated with a sizzling smack, “see what you are feeling.”

“Yes sir,” was all she managed.

“Arch your back,” he demanded suddenly, and she complied instantly, but only for an instant. “No, down,” he chided. They both knew what he wanted though the crop still landed on her cheek, her right cheek – and so far only her right cheek. “You said I wouldn’t need a bit, that you’d comply.” This and an easing of the crop-strokes had her trying to obey, fighting her body’s protective instincts. John knew that she wanted to obey and would find it easier with a threat and an appeal to her honor.

If she was watching herself in her mind, by now she was seeing a growing red patch centered on one cheek, streaked upward from the stem of the crop. She would also be seeing her own core crudely displayed and rudely offered, more than exposed, itself exposing her extreme arousal. She might imagine – she might even be right – that John did not see this so directly, but she would be fooling herself to think he was unaware of it.

The room had warmed considerably, not only due to the diligent work of the heater – the participants were contributing equally if not more and John observed a drop of sweat as it found its way down her temple. A mixture of blows – high, low, dangerously close and far off-center – landed without a discernible pattern or rhythm, stoking her anticipation. And while John was in a position to be much more patient, soon enough a medium-sharp smack found home.

“Ow!” came the protest as she jerked, heaved, and cowered.

“And what was that?” John asked, letting her know that his face was still close to her ear.

“That… got me.” When she got no reply she had to go on. “There… you know…”

“Where?” John demanded.

“On my… in the… middle.”

“Ah. Arch your back,” he reminded her.

“Please, sir…”

“Are you going to behave for me?” he threatened.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

None of the intervening strokes had been hard though once she was back in position a few caused her to jump. John also started landing some on her previously unblemished left cheek. When a second hit its mark, he gave her a breath before responding “Arch…”

As she did so he instructed her in a firm, quiet voice. “Any embarrassment you may be feeling,” he started, as if the possibility was a remote one, “I want you to channel into your actions, not your punishment. Nothing that happens in here can compare to what you’ve been doing out there. Don’t be ashamed of yourself when you can’t help resisting me,” he said, never mentioning the most likely sources of her discomfiture, “it’s understandable that your body resists being chastised. I want you to make sure that your mind isn’t the same way. You need to accept this and resolve – not to avoid future discipline when you’ve earned it – but to avoid the behavior that requires it in the first place.”

Throughout this little lecture he continued to attack her soft cheeks, low, and under the spray that followed another incident occurred as he contrived to land a stroke on her bottom-bud. Again she protested, differently, this time with a hiss.

“And that? What was that?” he asked as if innocent of all knowledge.

“That landed on my… on the other place,” he was told.

“Oh, I see. We won’t concern ourselves with that.” He hadn’t even needed to remind her to present him with his target. As she arched and tremblingly offered her overheated sex to him he smacked it once again.

“That’s three – count that one, aloud,” he instructed.

“Three,” she pronounced obediently. “Please, sir – how many… how…”

“If I happened to catch you the very first and only time you’ve done this then you’re a very unfortunate young woman indeed, for I suspect this is merely the first time you’ve been caught. I think a few more are called for. If I’m being unfair, speak up and I’ll consider what you have to say – but I consider you to be getting off pretty lightly and I don’t want to be hearing you dismiss your misdeeds to save yourself a few moments’ discomfort.”

“Four… sir. I’m sorry, sir,” she apologized, unbidden.

The punishment could not have better fit the offense, as while she trembled and whined and pushed herself to meet his demands John was discovering by demonstration what her motivation might have been. To have this bucking, struggling, but ultimately compliant body vibrating beneath him was every bit as stimulating as she had found it earlier – so much so that he could well understand her desire for a second, or third, or habitual performance. Though he didn’t stop at five, or six, it was only because of her wide, broad-based position that she was able to remain upright, and only due to the grip of his calves, his strong fingers holding her head by the hair, and the power of his voice that she was able to remain between his legs. Whether she pressed her shoulders forward, arching herself further, or tried to curl up and found herself backed into the flashing crop, or even lowered herself, widening her stance and her display, the only thing that seemed to move her toward an end to all of this was her counting seven, eight, oh God! nine…

By now John’s strokes, of which there were dozens for each integer she pronounced, were barely hard enough to register except in the sorest – or most sensitive – locations. At this point he resumed putting a bit of fire to her cheeks, giving each spank a touch of bite, unless it was one of the few directed at her core, one of the ones to “count.” Here he merely tapped, signaled, suspecting just how sensitive she had become and not wanting to drive her past the peak of her arousal. Her swelling, parting, and lubricating were all plainly evident and John worried that anything more forceful would overwhelm her. Ten, she said, and her voice trembled, but not from pain – the relief of progress, perhaps? Or an insatiable desire for contact now that such a responsive state had been reached?

Nearing the end, he could not resist torturing her in her anticipation, thrashing her bottom harder, knowing that she could well take it and yet would feel it dearly later, stretching out the wait until the next critical, countable stroke. At length came eleven and then, when he was confident that he had landed every smack he’d wanted to, tended to every curve, removed even the smallest patches not only of white but pink and some of the lighter reds, twelve.

Releasing her head, hand on her shoulder, easing the grip of his legs, he let her rock and mewl and breathe, tracing with a fingertip on the dampness of the back of her neck, and between her shoulder-blades, stepping back and smoothing his hand down her ribs, his thumb on the small of her back, stepping his left leg between her feet, slowly sinking his knee between her own.