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Seven Days How we met I can barely recall. I mean, I remember the place - a crowded room in one of London’s grand Victorian houses - and the event, billed as an evening of erotic poetry from around the world, but exactly why she singled me out, or how she made her approach… that I’m still a hazy on. All I remember was her studied elegance, her perfection. She looked like one of any number of pretty 20-something women in London who you might see sitting on the Tube or walking home after work, through the dark evenings of mid-winter past glowing shop windows, where you might catch their eye in passing, or find yourself admiring their legs as they travelled up an escalator before you. She was quite short - a over five feet tall, I was later to learn, and slim. Brown hair, eyes green. Pretty features and a few freckles across her nose. She wore dark jeans and knee-high brown boots with a heel - how prettily you clip along, swinging your neat tail, my miss, my minxy mistress. A purple sweater was cinched tight at her waist by a wide belt. She looked , innocent, and very attractive indeed. Nice, suburban, English, next door, take me home, do what you to me, I’m all yours. It was clear there was a mutual interest. Perhaps it was the rather febrile atmosphere in the room after the readings - all longing sighs and lovers’ endless kisses - or just two people with the same sort of thing in mind, but I found myself becoming increasingly charmed by her. And, as usual in these situations, I tried to shut out the inner clamour of warning bells in my head: she thinks you are just a nice attractive guy, what if we’re not into the same things, how do I begin to explain…? And yet I was interested enough to pursue it, to take a chance, dare all and run the gauntlet of dismay, disgust or just indifference, polite smile and move away. There’s some indefinable moment, as a switch, when the roles you are to play are established fairly early on - perhaps within the first few seconds of meeting. In our case it took a bit longer: I had already turned over several different scenarios in my mind, and all of them seemed equally fulfilling. But I knew that this was an opportunity for more than just a one night stand, more than just a quick vanilla clinch of frantic sex. I felt the need to be honest from the outset. So when we were talking I was putting out cues, subtle and not-so-subtle, that I might not be exactly what I appeared. Eventually I just came out with it. “I’m a switch,” I said, wondering if I needed to explain, and exactly how I would. “I see,” she replied. “I’m not. I’m a domme.” OMG, she knows, be still my beating heart. We walked together along Piccadilly, through the flow of night-time shoppers, under the garish neon glare of the lights, and talked about our desires and how they shaped us. Standing at the entrance to the Underground I opened up to her, threw caution to the wind, told her what I wanted. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded in agreement, smiled mischievously, and from that point on my world turned upside down. Sunday : Barely two hours have gone by since we left each other. My phone bleeps at me with a new message and I pick it up to see her name. I have no idea what to expect, but I make out the first few words of the preview on the screen and my heart starts to thump. “This week you are going to be feminised. You will wear panties…” I swipe, key in the code, and the whole message pops up: This week you are going to be feminised. You will wear panties and a bra every day, and send me a photo of yourself each morning. You will sleep in a camisole and thong. When you are at home you will wear a dress or skirt, stockings and high heels at all times. When you go out you may change into a pair of ladies’ jeans and your male shoes, but underneath you will be wearing panties. I am going to spank you every other day with my hairbrush, starting tomorrow. I will see you tomorrow evening, at 6 pm, and I expect you to be shaved smooth, dressed nicely and ready for your punishment. You are denied permission to cum for the duration of one week, starting now. If you disobey me, you will be caned. I become immediately aroused reading her message. Not allowed to cum for a week? I will explode. And spanked every other day? That was - I count on my fingers - Monday, Wednesday, Friday… Sunday? Would she count Sunday as well? Probably. I thought of the meeting I had to attend on Tuesday morning. It was going to be an uncomfortable experience, sitting there on a soundly spanked bottom for three hours. I didn’t even want to think about being caned by her. Excited yet nervous, I get ready for bed, just as she had ordered: a tight-fitting camisole in hot pink, a white cotton thong with pink elastic trim, and a pair of white ankle socks. I lie in the darkness with my eyes open, feeling the intimate clutch of the thong wedging me tight, and wonder how I’ll be feeling this time tomorrow. Lying on my front, most likely. Monday Showering takes longer than usual as I have to shave my legs. I moisturise with body lotion and it feels like instant femininity - my skin is so smooth I keep running my fingers lightly over my thighs and thrilling a at the eroticism I feel. I have to write a report this morning, and am half-thinking of what to put in it, while the other half of my mind is wondering what to wear. I opt for something smart yet secretarial: black lace Brazilian knickers that pull tight into my bottom and show it off nicely, black opaque tights, short black miniskirt (very tight - I have to wiggle to get it over my hips). Purple sweater and black La Senza bra. I pad around in my stockinged feet for a while, then slip on my ankle boots - purple as well, and with a 5” heel. Just as well I don’t have to walk anywhere this morning - I wouldn’t get far in these. They hobble my stride so I am reduced to a short, wiggling gait. The skirt is tight around my thighs and makes my bottom stick out. I send her a photo and get a smiley face in return. It’s amazing how these clothes transform me - change the way I stand, walk, bend over. Reaching down to take the milk out of the fridge, I keep my feet together, legs straight and bend from the waist. I sit down carefully, with knees demurely together, arching my back a to ensure my posture is upright. My breasts occupy my vision when I glance down. I force myself to focus on the report, and work for a while, shifting slightly in my seat occasionally at the unfamiliar pressure of seams in different places. After an hour or two I realise I need to pee, so I head to the bathroom, my heels clicking on the tiled floor. Minor logistical problem - no zip. I lift the skirt above my waist, peel down the tights and knickers, and pee sitting down. By four o’clock I realise that I am at the clock every ten minutes in an increased state of nervousness. My report abandoned through complete lack of concentration, I browse different news websites for a while, but all I am thinking about is her. She’s going to spank me. I don’t to be spanked. Actually I do. I to be held across her lap and have her punish me long and hard. I fear the pain of it and I crave it at the same time. She’s so , so immaculate. Does she know what to do? Will it be a few token smacks? Or is she going to really go to town on me? I suspect the latter, and the thought makes me tremble. 6.pm. She’s late. She’s not coming. It was all just a fantasy. I should’ve known. I smoke a cigarette furiously, defiantly, then walk back into the living room, taking off the ridiculous heels which make my feet hurt. I’m so horny I to jerk off, and I absent-mindedly stroke myself through the sheerness of the tights. Then the doorbell goes, and guiltily I jump up. Oh my god, it’s her. She’s here. I buzz her in, quickly pulling on the heels again, and a few moments later hear a faint tap at the door. I open it a crack and peer round. She’s wearing a blue frock with a floral pattern, a smart coat and those tall brown boots again. I open the door and usher her in, taking her coat and hanging it on the peg by the door. Once inside she stands before me, me up and down with a smile. “Very nice,” she says. “You look very sexy”. I blush, and glance down at myself embarrassed. She paces around me and lightly runs her hand over my bottom. “Such a cute ass. So spankable.” She pats it a few times. My heart thumps again. In the preoccupation of her arrival I had almost forgotten. I offer to make her tea, but she declines, preferring instead a glass of water, which she sips at. We sit side by side on the sofa and she asks me how my day has been. “Uncomfortable,” I tell her. “Just wait until tomorrow then,” she says with a smile. “You’re not going to be sitting comfortably for some time.” There’s an almost malicious glee to the way she says it, a kind of self-satisfaction, that makes me flush. Why should it be that she sits there so prim and proper, and I’m the one getting spanked? It’s not fair. But it is fair. It’s exactly how it should be. I wanted this - wanted it more than I was able to admit. But admit it I did, and now it is happening, and my knees are trembling and my face is hot and I can hardly breath. She stands up, crosses to the dining table, picks up one of the straight-backed wooden chairs and places it squarely in the middle of the room. Wide-eyed I watch from the sofa. Holding my gaze she elegantly sits down upon it, her feet and knees together like a good , and places her bag on the floor at her side. She shifts position a from side to side, getting herself comfortable, and smooths the skirt of her dress, raising it until it barely covers her thighs. Then, as if from a very long way away I hear her voice. She narrows her eyes, looks at me sternly, and says the dread words that I have been waiting for for so long. “Get across my lap.” I rise like an automaton, and teetering slightly in my heels, make my way across to the chair. I have to half-crouch and rather clumsily climb across her lap, my world now consisting of an expanse of carpet and the patterned fringe of the sofa in the corner. She shifts me slightly into position. I can feel the warmth of her legs through the sheer fabric of my tights, and smell her scent. She’s so soft, so pliantly smooth. She places her hand on my right buttock and strokes a few times. “We’re not going to be needing this skirt, I thin” With a bit of wriggling on my part, she lifts it above my waist. “And these tights are going to come down too. I to see those pretty panties.” She lowers the tights to mid-thigh, where they hold my legs together. My bottom is sticking up and feeling very exposed. She places her cool hand on it and strokes some more. And in her soft voice the words fall in a malevolent purr: “You’ve been very bad, haven’t you? at girls being spanked on the internet when you should be working. Well now you’re going to find out exactly what it feels like. When I was naughty I used to get spanked, so now you’ll be spanked just like a naughty girl. Because you deserve it.” With that she reaches down, clicks open her bag, and takes out her hairbrush. I catch a fleeting glimpse of it from beneath the chair in my inelegant position: large, dark, oval. How will it feel? Is it plastic, or wood? I can’t see. Does she know what it feels like? Yes. She knows only too well. She’s about to tan my bottom good and proper, she informs me, and I won’t sit down again today. And with that, it smacks sharply across my bottom. Then again, and again. Hard. At the third stroke I let loose a moan. She tosses her hair, tightens her grip with her left arm around my waist, and spanks me. I try to count, and get to before I start to squirm. “Stay still!” she commands, whacking me extra hard. “If you wriggle I will only spank you harder.” She continues to beat out a fiendish tattoo on my behind, and my feet, in the purple pointy heels, dance on the carpet. “Keep your feet down!” Another tremendous whac I cry out an apology. This hurts far, far more than I anticipated. I don’t to be a naughty any more. I to be a man, to jump up, to wrestle that brush from her hand and throw it out of the window. But I don’t. Because she’s right - I deserve this. Fragments of bizarre poetry randomly pop into my head from earlier in the evening. Upon a round hill smooth with snow, the sunset brings a reddish glow. Faster and faster she spanks, covering my whole bottom, which feels as if it is red hot. Then she stops. Haiku-like, cool palm on bright red bum. The hand falls. Ouch! Then words of doom, delivered in immaculate cut glass English accent. “I think these pretty panties ought to come down.” The thought of losing the negligible protection of the triangle of black lace that make up the back of my knickers somehow fills me with an entirely disproportionate sense of foreboding. It’s not so much the vestigial sense of protection: a slip of lacy black frivolity doesn’t count for much padding - nor even any false sense of modesty: it’s quite hard to retain one’s sense of dignity when one is arse-up and whimpering across a lady’s lap while dressed as a sexy secretary. No, it’s more a growing sense of dread that whatever has gone before was just a precursor, a warm up, and that my already throbbing and burning bottom is about to be completely bared to her undivided attention. And indeed she then sets about me with the hairbrush unsparingly, with what I can only describe as a cheerful deliberation - I can hear the smile in her voice, her chirpiness that this is well deserved, and if I to play at being a naughty , well then, naughty girls get spanked. And how. The hairbrush falls with a tight , each stroke landing square on target, and just as the pain blossoms and unfurls red and hot and grows and grows, then it falls again upon the other side. The effect is devastatingly cumulative, a slow, steady ascent of discomfort into pain, and pain into something almost unbearable that has me kicking and whining, reducing me to a moaning mass of component parts, at one end alternately pleading and promising, and at the other, a smarting red bottom that feels as if it is growing larger and more swollen by the minute, until soon the only thing that will be noticeable about me is the tender target of my protruding arse. To be forced to wear these skimpy underthings that bisect my bottom and hold me tight in their intimate embrace, accentuated by skintight jeans or figure-hugging skirts that make it stick out invitingly when right now the last thing I to do is draw any more attention to it - I am just a naughty bottom who deserves to be spanked. And will be, over and over again. “Stop kicking!” she commands. “Point your toes and place them on the carpet, feet together. I’m going to finish you off now, and if I see one foot come up, we’ll start all over again.” I let out a moan that might be agreement or despair. “Now count,” she says. “One thank you miss, two thank you miss…” the mantra of corporal punishment, my minxy miss with her cute boots and posh accent and her perfect bottom that was so often spanked for being naughty, which I to see now, more than anything I to see her getting her bottom spanked and her panties and despite the pain and trying to count I’m going hard again at the thought and for god’s sake don’t lose count because each stroke is harder than the last and “SEVEN thank you miss” but what is this? She has stopped. Is it over? “Are you sure that was seven?” she silkily enquires. Not wishing to provoke her to greater efforts I err on the side of caution, suddenly unsure. “Um… six. I’m sorry - six.” “Oh dear, you’re not paying attention, are you? Back to the beginning.” Wail of dismay cut short by gasp of surprise as blasted brush smacks sharply down. “One! Thank you miss. TWO! Thank you miss…” On and on. Ten is in sight, and then, woe is me, eleven. Odd numbers are not a good thing. OK, so it is 20. Oh god, 21. Please no more, please please please, 30! I tense, waiting for 31. It doesn’t come. I am to be spared. Get up, I hear her say. Unsteadily I rise, knock-kneed and pigeon toed, teetering counterpoint on 5” heels, arse ablaze. Pull up your tights. I ease the knickers back over my blazing behind, pulling them up, and then the tights, the touch of which makes me gasp anew. They seem to contain the warmth and intensify it somehow. I roll down my skirt, smooth it, make myself presentable. She gets up, places the chair back at the table, and goes to take a sip of water, at me levelly over the rim of the glass as she drinks. Then crosses to the sofa, pert and pretty miss, and plonks herself down with an air of satisfaction. Pats the cushion next to her. Come here and sit down. Wincing I lower myself tentatively. Count to ten. I have to shift position. She smiles. I tuck my legs beneath me and half sit, half kneel. She absent-mindedly places a hand on my stockinged thigh, and strokes. “You have the most feminine bottom I’ve ever seen on a man,” she says. “It was made to be spanked”. I send up a minor curse to the deity of genetics, not meaning a word of it. “And I look forward to doing so again on Wednesday. If you think it’s sore now, just wait till you feel that hairbrush again”. I’m not forward to it. “One more thing,” she says, my head , all innocence, sit up straight and mind your manners. “I noticed you became rather excited while I was spanking you.” I blush ridiculously. She goes on: “You are not, under any circumstances, allowed to masturbate this wee You will behave properly. If you do not, I will cane you so hard you won’t know what’s hit you. But…” she opens her bag again and peers inside. “You may use this, when I say you can.” Out of the bag comes a box. On the cover is a pneumatic porn star with eyes shut and mouth agape in a cry, with an expression of orgasmic pleasure. I make out the words: Anal vibrator. Large. “My pretty bottom,” she purrs. “You’ll be spanked and fucked until you learn to behave properly. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.” Up she gets, checks herself in the mirror, I hold her coat out and she slips into it, gives me a peck on the cheek, and is gone. I do end up sleeping on my front. And it’s only Monday. Jan 20, 20  |
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