And a Happy New Year to you all!
I am back and I will start with a story in three parts. This time I will just post them one after the other with not much delay. It is an old theme, another point of view but still the same. There will be spankings in this but not in this instalment.
'Shock me!' she used to say to her friends. Sometimes she even said it to those who wanted to be her lovers. She prompted them to do something that shocked her, that made her uneasy or transformed her world, a little - if only a little.
It never worked. They often told her some story about something that was supposed to leave her with disbelief or wonder. Some of them, most often the men, the ones who aspired to her affection, tried to say something intellectual, something clever, tried to appear wild and crazy. Those of them who didn't just shrug their shoulders and laughed. She found them all silly.
She wasn't experienced in life. She was even quite innocent. But she was a thinking person, a reading person and knew the world through others. Nothing shocked her any more and she wanted that. She wanted to be shocked, to feel awe, to be surprised and scared. She wanted someone to rock her steady little boat.
Until it happened. She thought she wanted to be shocked but when it happened she wasn't so sure.
He wasn't even good looking. He was a little older than her but she didn't mind. He looked at her and that was something she wasn't really used to. The men who had wooed her didn't look at her. They glanced at her, talked about beautiful things but never dared to look at her. And when they turned their eyes towards her they didn't see her. They claimed they saw her mind but not even that could she believe.
He looked at her and she felt uneasy. She thought she wanted a man to look at her, to assess her body, to linger on her breasts and neck, to caress her midriff and hips, to see her body, as a woman. This man looked at her but it didn't feel like she had imagined it. She didn't even see the desire she had longed for. He simply looked at her and she was scared.
They spoke. He was a friend of a friend but she wasn't really sure who the friend was and how that person related to her. They spoke anyway. And he shocked her. Not at first but later, after they had been introduced and the attention of the others had turned somewhere else and their conversation was theirs alone.
'You want me to give you something that you know I can give you,' he said and she was shocked.
She didn't answer at first. She just stared at him. She didn't know why she just didn't say something witty, or even something dismissive. He was arrogant. She felt that it wasn't appropriate to say such a thing. It was not simply done. It was rude. She was quite upset. It felt as if he had punched her and she couldn't understand why.
'Do I?' she replied trying to be as arrogant as he was. She heard her voice being weak. She hated when she was weak.
She looked at him and thought that she had met him before. He had been sitting in the pub, next to her and had started to talk to her, being a little tipsy. He had thought her prude and prim and in the need of some loosening up. He knew he was the man to make her feel better, he and his manhood, he and his experience. Oh, yes, she had met him in more than one disguise, sometimes fat and balding, sometimes short haired and muscular, but always arrogant, always with that ugly drink induced confidence, always wrong and always disgusting.
No, he wasn't that man, not any of them. He was different. But she didn't know how he was different.
'Come with me!' he said and put his hand on hers, quickly but without hesitation. He didn't grab her arm, just touched it, held it for a second. He rose to his feet and turned around and went to the door. He turned around and looked at her, turned away and opened the door and went out into the night.
Her heart was beating heavily. She told herself not to have fear. Fear! Why should she be scared?
She blushed as she excused herself to the others and left the pub. She didn't care if some of them would realise that she went after the man. She just didn't care. She was scared but she didn't care. He had shocked her and she didn't know what to do.
She looked around outside the pub and for a moment she couldn't see him. She felt relief. He was gone and she could go home.
But he was there. He stood some way away from the entrance and when she saw him, her heart stopped beating.
Her heart started thumping in her chest as she approached him.
She stood close to him, uncomfortably close. He knew he was smiling but she couldn't see it. She felt it. She felt his arrogant smile in every bone of her body, burning on her cheeks as if he had slapped her. She felt humiliated by his invisible smile and she knew she had humiliated herself by walking up to him.
She felt the connection between them. She felt it like a piece of string tied to her body. Her end of the string was fastened to her soft body, to her sensitive skin and to her bones. She imagined he was holding his end in his hand.
He sealed the connection. She felt a movement and was scandalised as she felt him lift her skirt. She felt him put his cold hand inside her knickers, down her lower belly and enter her. She held her breath.
She looked desperately around and wondered why she was more concerned with anyone seeing him putting his hand down her knickers than with screaming for help. She was violated, there in the street and her thoughts were about who might see it.
He just held his fingers in her and she imagined how he was holding that string between his fingers and how it continued into her and was divided in many strands, each and everyone tied to a part of her soul.
Then they were gone and she sighed. She sighed but but not with relief but with her loss, with missing his fingers. He looked at her, still standing close, very close. And her body ached of his touch. She could not speak.
'Come with me!' he said, 'I live around the corner.'
She followed him. They did not walk side by side. He was half a step in front of her. She followed, like a devoted wife in the old days. Her cheeks were burning with the humiliation.
His flat was small and very neat. It was well cleaned and very dark. She could hardly see the furniture. She was standing in the small living room. There was an armchair, some wooden chairs and a small table. He had no tv set, but there was a radio on a small sideboard. There were bookshelves and many books and a Persian looking rug.
He didn't offer her a seat. She was standing as he sat himself down in the armchair. She thought it very rude but she was beyond caring about rudeness. She was standing because he had not told her to sit.
He had shocked her and he had rocked her secure little boat. She was humiliated and scared. He had slapped her face and shown her how wrong she was, how uptight she was and how prudish she was. He had not hit her for real but she felt him like a slap in the face or a punch in the stomach.
And her sex was aching. Instead of screaming she had let him touch her and now she could not deny that her body wanted more. She wondered why he was sitting down, why she was standing. She wondered why he waited. She was there and she knew he could have her.