Dashed Off

Another guest post. This time by the one and only Wystan E. I didn't know what to call this story so I took the subject heading of the email it was sent in. I think it refers to the way this story was written. I liked it, so I put it as the title.

Maybe I am lazy putting stories by others here, but since they are good, you shouldn't mind. And, besides, I am sure you have plenty of ideas how to deal with my laziness. Read and enjoy.

She was a dancer who never danced. A singer who never sang. A poetess who never spoke, or wrote.

By 'never,' I mean, 'anymore.'

She was a genius who now kept her thoughts to herself: Running commentaries on events; ideas for gadgets; advice for friends; stock tips; expressions of love, or hatred, all repressed, shut inside.

She laughed (when she laughed) as if she were stifling a sneeze. Half embarrassed, half annoyed with herself.

Living the Life Interior.

And suddenly, she became mine, all mine. You may wonder and guess how and why this came about – but you will wonder in vain, and guess wrong. Simply take my word that this treasure was suddenly mine to … to spend as I would. No, not to spend – to invest in…

She was predictably stubborn at first.

'Dance.'

'I cannot.'

Well, I had seen her on stage, years ago, light and lithe. Dancing en pointe. So I placed her on point – you take my meaning, do you not? – and induced her to dance for me. On this occasion, with the same … incentive … she also sang.

Mind you, this was not ballet or opera – nor hip-hop or pop -- but her movements were graceful, her voice pure, real.

'I told you that you could dance,' I said. Her head was bowed, her hair tangled, her face wet with perspiration. 'Yes,' she replied. Her voice was a bit hoarse. 'Dance some more,' I commanded her, 'For yourself.' She shook her head 'no.' So she danced instead to my tune, sang to it.

The next day, more of the same. Her dance was more frantic, her song more urgent, more plaintive. I applauded, then spoke gently to her. 'You are exhausted, my dear.' (Indeed, she was gasping for breath, her face red, her body trembling.) 'But I require an encore. Freely given or …'

And this time, she nodded wearily (warily), 'yes.' She danced about the room for me, still naked, a bit stiffly, but she danced. A dance of captivity, of distress, of longing. But a dance…. Her song still had no words, none that I recognized, but it was tuneful. She stared at me as she sang. The song expressed anger, promised revenge. I was satisfied.

The third day she agreed to dance. She pirouetted, then sprang for the door. As if I would not have anticipated… So this time she danced on air, her legs kicking …

Later, she performed other dances. Some on her back, some on hands and knees. She intoned new songs, some wrung from her, some spontaneous, some from the heart, some from other places…

Words came harder from her. At first, she simply snapped the pencils in half. 'You are a bit old,' I observed, 'for such schoolgirl pranks.' She pouted prettily. 'But as you will play the schoolgirl, I will play the headmaster.' She knew the 'position.' Assumed it. Ten minutes later, I handed the pencil back to my chastened pupil.

So she wrote. Nonsense, doodles, runes. I was satisfied. Marks on paper…

The very next day, after sharpening her pencil, she sprung at me, wooden dagger in hand. I can’t say I was surprised, except by her speed and strength. But in the end I prevailed. Or rather, the shackles gave me an unfair advantage.

I did not punish this last attempt (for it was indeed the last). I expected her to test the bars of her cage, of her invisible fence. I wanted her to push the limits, to see cause and effect.

And as she sang, wrote, read, danced – felt – lived -- again, she changed. By now the doors were unlocked. I felt free to turn my back on her. I made no new demands. I did not need to. She was pursuing excellence again.

I told her, one fine Wednesday, that my task was complete, my job done.

'Not yet,' she said. She ran to the cabinet, and returned, bearing a whip, a rope, a wooden ruler, a candle. I nodded. 'No.' I placed them in her bag, the small one she’d brought with her. 'I’m not ready,' she insisted. 'I can’t… out there.'

I patted her on the cheek, turned and walked away. I felt the bag – and it was heavy – hit me in the back. She’d flung it at me. I turned and slid it back to her.

'Lock the door on your way out.'

Later, when I checked, she was gone. She’d locked the door, as I’d told her.

Still later, I found she’d taken the spare set of keys.

Once in a great while, I find things disturbed a bit, a chair moved, or a tabled neatened. Sometimes I find a new picture on the wall, a new poem on my desk.

Yesterday, I heard her voice. In a cab. On the radio

But I have not seen her since.

A Dinner and Some

Sometimes when you read something by someone who is really good, you get inspired. It is quite fun to try to write in the style of someone else, one of the really clever ones. In all honesty, I don't make an effort to make my text similar to anyone else's, I am just trying to allow myself to write with a certain style in my mind. So it doesn't really matter if it is similar or not. It's just a story, nothing more.

We met at a café on King's Lane. It was around five when he walked in. He wasn't late but I was a little annoyed since I had been so early. He looked awfully smart, in a dark blue suit and a red tie.

'You look nice,' he said as he sat down.

'Nice?'

'Smart, beautiful.'

I laughed a short mocking laugh and smiled at him.

We went on to the restaurant and he took command. I don't know, but it seemed a little awkward for him. He knew what to do, how to talk to the waiter, how to order, but there was something that told me wasn't used to it.

We had met some days before, at a party and he had looked at me. I couldn't really understand what that look meant but it made me interested.

We shared a bottle of wine. I don't really drink wine but he didn't ask, just assumed that it was what I wanted. I kind of liked that.

We talked and drank our wine and had the veal and then the panna cotta. He was easygoing, not too bold, not too shy. He gave me room and listened. I enjoyed being listened to. It was nice.

'Want to go anywhere?' he asked when we had had our coffee. I had mine with lots of milk but he took his black. I don't know if he liked it that way or if he just wanted to show off.

'So you want to go somewhere,' I asked, 'with me?'

'I want to spank you.'

I laughed.

'I thought you wanted other things.'

'Like what?'

'Things you do, man and woman, you know.'

'No, maybe later, but first I want to spank you.'

'Where do you go for that sort of thing?'

'To my place.'

'It's the second time we meet.'

'It is known to have happened the first time.'

We walked through the empty city streets. They were almost completely deserted. It was an ordinary weekday and there wasn't much to do. It was only us who were dressed to kill.

I felt smart in my black dress and I had made my hair up in a sweet bun on my head with a very nice butterfly clip. It was a cheap thing but it made my hair look good.

'You get to choose,' he said, when I sat in his sofa.

'Choose what?'

'Not the wine, I have already decided on the wine.'

'Then what?'

'Wait.'

He came back with a bottle of red and two glasses. He poured the wine. I don't know much of wine but it was full and mature and not so flowery, if those are the words you use for describing wine.

He didn't talk, just sat there, sipping his wine. I wondered what it was he wanted me to choose. I wondered what it was he really had brought me here for.

He put his glass down and went away. He came back and placed a heavy wooden thing, something that looked a little like a leather belt and a riding crop on the table.

'I want you to choose one of these.'

I looked at the things and saw that the wooden thing was flat and heavy, had holes in it and a handle. The leather thing was thick and some eight inches long with a handle too. The riding crop was black.

'Which one is worst?'

'I couldn't tell, they are different.'

'I don't know which one to choose.'

'Just pick one then.'

I sat looking at the things and thought that he was serious. I wasn't still sure but I began to think he might be.

I pointed at the leather thing.

'Do you want to finish your wine?'

'No, I don't'

He told me to stand up and lift my skirt. I did as I was told. I was then to lie across the armrest of the sofa. It wasn't very comfortable.

He walked up to me and pulled my knickers down. I was staring in front of me, at a small Persian Rug, or rather a Kilim and wondered if was going to tell him they are supposed to hang on the wall.

I was surprised by the impact. My body rocked forward and at first I was more shocked by the impact than the pain.

He didn't tell me how many times he was going to hit me so I wondered every time: 'is this the last one.'

It hurt and I couldn't stop myself from crying. I felt embarrassed and it was strange to think that I was more embarrassed about crying than having my knickers around my knees. Maybe having my knickers pulled down was what I had expected.

When he was done I rose to my feet and pulled my knickers up. I smoothed out my skirt and looked at him.

'I liked that,' he said.

'Did you?'

'Yes, I did.'

'What now?'

'More wine?'

'No, thanks, I don't really like wine.'

'Alright.'

'Do you want me to leave now?'

'No, not if you don't want to.'

'I could stay.'

The Neighbour

Something more cheerful...and with a spanking. What more can you ask for?

John had just moved to town, new job, new openings. He had found his new flat in an old but well kept building. It wasn't big but he couldn't afford anything larger. He was content as he began to settle in.

The third evening, after work, he sat down in his armchair, feeling exhausted. Work seemed fine but he was new and that was taxing. He had just come home and wanted nothing more than to be allowed to watch the telly and fall asleep.

The doorbell sounded and John sighed and clambered from his armchair. He dragged himself out into the hallway and answered the door.

Outside stood a woman. She was half a head shorter than him, had shoulder length hair in an undefined darkish colour. She was dressed in a dark blue and quite modest dress but no overcoat. She smiled.

John remembered he had met her in the hallway, the day before, she had smiled and said hello. He thought she must live in the house.

'Plain and sweet,' he had thought when he saw her then. He still thought the same, but her smile made her look quite nice.

'Welcome to the house,' she said, a flicker of insecurity on her face. 'I am Stephanie.'

'Thank you,' he heard himself say, remembering to smile, 'John.'

'Are you busy?' she continued.

'No, no, not at all.'

'Can I come in?'

'Yes, of course, sorry, yes, please, do that, come in.'

'Thank you.'

'I'll put the kettle on.'

She followed him into the kitchen as he prepared the tea. She was leaning against the door frame, looking a little bewildered.

'It is a nice kitchen,' she tried.

'Yes, it is, very nice.'

'Bigger than mine.'

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

'Please, sit down,' John said, feeling a little calmer after laughing together.

'Thank you.'

They took the tea in the kitchen, by the small table. John wondered if that was impolite but Stephanie didn't seem to mind. They chatted and after a while they seemed to find the situation less awkward, less tense. John began to forget how tired he was, thinking that it was nice to make new acquaintances.

'There is something I need to ask you about,' Stephanie said, suddenly looking very awkward.

'Please, do,' John said, expecting to be asked for a donation to the house party they always had in May or something of the sort.

'Can I confide in you?' she said and looked very sincere.

'Yes, of course, I hope you can.'

John found it a bit awkward, wondering if Stephanie was one of those who let her heart out to anyone who cared to listen.

'You see, John,' she said, looking very worried, 'I live with my sister and she always takes care of things. Now she has gone on holiday, won't be back for two weeks.'

'Yes...'

'And not I have gone and done something really stupid.'

'Stupid?'

'Yes, I have forgot to pay our credit card bill, in time.'

'Oh,' John said, feeling his body and mind tense. Was she going to ask him for money?

'I paid it yesterday but that is too late and now we will have to pay interest or something on it. My sister always takes care of those things, but now she explicitly told me to do that.'

'Is it a lot of money? I mean, the interest?'

'No, just some two pounds. It's not that.'

'What is it then?'

'I have failed her.'

'Failed her?'

'Yes, she trusted me with this and I have failed her. Will you help me?'

'What can I do to help you?'

'The same as my sister always does when I fail her.'

'What is that?'

'Punish me.'

John sat in silence for a while, not sure what to think. He looked at Stephanie and she looked miserable, really upset.

'Punish you?'

'Yes, please, will you do that?'

She looked pleadingly at him.

'I don't know, really.'

'Please, I am sure my sister will be grateful.'

'Can't it wait until she gets back?'

'It is better she doesn't have to deal with me, first thing.'

'Are you sure?'

'Please!'

John stared at Stephanie, she looked at him, her face close to tears, transforming her from the caring neighbour to a woman in need, a damsel in some kind of distress.

'How, how does your sister, well, deal with you?'

'She spanks me.'

'I am not sure...'

'It is easy.'

'But...'

'Please.'

'So you want me to spank you?'

'Yes, please, that's what my sister would do.'

'Well, if that is what you want.'

'Thank you.'

'I don't know how to...'

'I'll show you. Wait here.'

Stephanie rose to her feet and left. John sat at the table, bewildered. He heard her open and close the door. He stared in front of him until he heard the doorbell once again.

'Here,' Stephanie said and gave him a hairbrush, as he opened the door for her.

'Is this for...?'

'Yes, my sister uses it all the time.'

'Where do you think...?'

'The living room, perhaps?'

He nodded and they went into his small but nice living room.

'It is very neat,' she said, 'are you married?'

'No, not married.'

'A girlfriend?'

'I just moved here. To this town, I mean.'

'Ah,' she said. 'Over there will be good.'

'Where?'

'You sit in the armchair and I can be in your lap.'

'Are you sure about this?'

'That's how my sister does it.'

'Well then.'

John sat down in the armchair and held his breath as Stephanie with a very soft but yet cautious movement placed her body across his lap.

'And then I am, like, supposed to smack...well, your bottom...with this?'

'Yes, that's how it's done.'

'On the bottom?'

'Yes.'

John took a deep breath. Then he placed the hairbrush on Stephanie's bottom. She seemed to tense her body as he did this.

Then he slapped her. She jumped.

'Oh, sorry,' he gasped.

'Don't be sorry, I deserve it.'

'Did it hurt?'

'No.'

'Good.'

'No, that's not good. My sister makes it hurt.'

'Oh.'

'It is a punishment, after all.'

'Yes, you are right. Harder then?'

'Yes, much harder.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

He slapped her again, a little harder. She jumped again.

'Better?'

'Better, but harder still.'

He smacked her again.

'Did that hurt?'

'Yes, a little, go on like that, but harder.'

John began to put some force into the slaps. He had never beaten anyone, and especially not a woman. He had to struggle against his nature to be able to hit Stephanie with the sturdy and very heavy brush.

Just as he had managed to deliver a short series of extremely brutal whacks, Stephanie interrupted him:

'Wait.'

'I am sorry, I hit you too hard.'

'No, not at all, it is supposed to hurt and my sister hits much harder.'

'What's wrong?'

'Forgetting a credit card bill is a bad thing to do, I think my sister would want a more severe punishment.'

'Isn't this severe enough?'

'I think she would insist on me lifting my skirt.'

'Are you really sure...'

Stephanie swiftly lifted her skirt and revealed her very white knickers.

'I can't possibly...' John said.

'Of course you can, that is what my sister would have done.'

'She is a woman.'

'That's not a problem.'

John found he had no words for a protest. He stared awkwardly at Stephanie's round bottom. It seemed wrong to hit it with the hairbrush.

Yet he complied and slapped her bottom with the hairbrush. Again she jumped which made John think that she must have felt it much more acutely when there was no skirt to protect her.

She said nothing so he assumed he was to continue. He took a deep breath and began to smack her. He used even more force and was both terrified and fascinated by watching the hairbrush make contact with Stephanie's perk bottom.

She began to squirm but she said not a word in protest and didn't seem to want him to stop so he continued.

There came a strange moment, when John suddenly found the whole business of spanking Stephanie quite fascinating. In fact, he began to think it was not so bad to do this. She had asked him to spank her, she had obviously wanted him to punish her and she had been the one asking him to hit her harder and she had insisted on him spanking her on her knickers.

'Stop.'

'Oh.'

All his misgivings came back. He was either been made a fool of or he was doing something terribly bad.

'My sister would insist on something more severe.'

'More severe?'

'Yes.'

Without further ado, Stephanie rose to her feet and with one swift and determined movement she pulled her knickers down to her knees. She then lifted her skirt and retook her place in his lap.

John was now staring at Stephanie's unclad bottom. He had a distinct feeling that this was something he should not do.

'Do you really mean...?'

'My sister says it isn't a proper spanking if it isn't done on the bare.'

'We shouldn't let her down.'

'No, and you can hit harder.'

John's misgivings gave way to a strange sensation. He felt elated and weirdly happy as he let the sturdy brush make contact with Stephanie's now exposed bottom. She squirmed and moved and John could feel she was in distress. She didn't protest so he assumed he was doing it right.

Suddenly he heard something that sounded like a sob. He immediately stopped.

'Don't stop.'

'I thought,' he stammered, 'I thought you were in distress.'

'I am in distress, but you have to continue. My sister says that when I begin to cry, the real punishment begins.'

'That's rather cruel.'

'I forgot the bill.'

'Very well, then.'

Stephanie's bottom was pink and red in places and John thought it too cruel to spank her more. But he realised the sister was right. She did deserve it. He got on with his duty.

John spanked Stephanie for a while and he found that his concerns and hesitations were replaced by a pride of doing what was right and a childish satisfaction in seeing her bottom being hit by the hairbrush he was swinging. He began to be fascinated by the sound and the movements she made, movements that seemed to tell him she was affected by her punishment.

Then it was enough. He just knew it and she seemed to accept it. He stopped spanking her and sat for a while.

'Have I been spanked enough?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'May I rise?'

'Yes, yes, of course.'

Stephanie rose to her feet pulled her knickers up and turned to John. Her face was a little red and her eyes a little wet. Yet she smiled.

'Thank you, John. Thank you for punishing me.'

'You are welcome.' He was almost on his way of saying, 'my pleasure,' but he didn't.

'John, if you want, you can come over to my place tomorrow. I will cook dinner and you can help me with a couple of things.'

'Oh, thank you, yes, please, I would like that, very much.'

Stephanie turned to leave.

'You said help you, what kind of things do you need help with?'

'There are plenty of things. You know how it is when you are alone, you become very sloppy.'

'I guess.'

John did visit Stephanie the next day and he did help her. She showed him a bath brush and a fish slice that was very useful and she was delighted to find that he was equipped with a very broad leather belt.

In fact, John grew used to helping Stephanie, a lot. After a while he stopped wondering when the sister would come home.