Thursday, 28 April 2011

The Park

Do I still love him? Of course I do. Why shouldn't I still love him? Yes, I know, what he did was unforgivable. It's not easy forgiving something unforgivable. You just have to...accept it.

What happened? I don't really want to talk about it, but I guess everyone knows about it anyway, so I will brace myself and tell the story.

It happened in the park, not long ago. It was a glorious day and there were plenty of people out and about. It wasn't exactly a milling throng, but it would be wrong to say it was deserted, far from it.

We were walking along a path, like any couple, that day. The sun was hot and the lawns were littered with people sunbathing and enjoying themselves.

We were having an argument. It doesn't matter what we were arguing about, but he was wrong and still is wrong. This latter fact doesn't exactly make it any easier.

The debate was quite heated, we are both passionate people who don't easily step down from our positions.

I think he knew he was losing the argument, because he began to use other means to get the upper hand, hinting that I didn't know what I was talking about, and telling me that I should know better. In the end he said that he should really take me over his knee and spank me.

My reaction was natural, I simply laughed at him.

It was then it happened. He stopped. Without any warning he grabbed my arm and dragged me along to a bench near by. Before I knew it, he was sitting on the bench and I was draped across his lap.

This he accomplished with not much effort. He is a strong and powerful man after all, a real delight to look upon. My strength is not much in comparison. Compared to him, I am tiny.

I don't know if the passers by thought much of what he did, but when he, without further ado, began smacking my bottom, I saw that they took notice.

He used only his hand but I knew he was angry. I had to admit that I yelped. It was not one of my most glorious moments. The fact was that it hurt. But I was to overcome by the suddenness of his actions and the firm impact of his hand, to say or do anything. But yelping.

After the first shock, I looked up and saw that more than one curious onlooker had their eyes fixed on us. I was taken by rage and began telling him what I thought.

'You can't bleeding hurts, you son of a dirty armadillo.' Or something along those lines.

He was upset, I could hear that. He was panting his replies.

'Long really need this...bloody know it all....'

Suddenly he stopped. I thought that his sudden anger had passed and it was now over. I saw that people were looking and I considered just sneaking away, instead of standing up and giving him a piece of my mind.

I don't know if he is a performer at heart, or if he just didn't care. The presence of our audience didn't dissuade him. Not at all.

Instead he decided that the indignity of my present position wasn't enough.

Funny how you notice small details in such situations. There was no crowd around us, but I saw that some people had stopped some distance away and pretended to enjoy the sun. Now they couldn't help turning the heads towards us. Or raise their eyebrows.

He turned up my skirt and gave me a couple of hard swats on my bottom. Since I had hoped it was all over, this came as some surprise, and I yelped again. He didn't continue for long. Instead he took hold of my knickers and yanked them down. In his fury he pulled them down to my knees, making sure they wouldn't interfere with his further actions.

Then he began again. I did feel his hand connecting to my bottom more acutely now, but I can't tell if this effect was worse than the humiliation of it all.

The fact that I now was lying with my bottom bared, getting it smacked, seemed to have changed the setting of the scene. Some kind of boundary was crossed, because now the onlookers seemed to feel more free to watch. It was as if the scene had gone from a domestic row, something that shouldn't really be enjoyed in public, to something unusual and weird, something you could be excused for desiring to watch.

His smacking was, perhaps, not as hard and angry as before, but the determination and the consistency with which it was performed made the whole thing quite unbearable.

The indignity receded into the background only to leave the centre stage to the burning pain. I was squirming at this point, no longer able to curse, only to whimper and gasp.

The crowd grew steadily and came closer. I guess they wanted to take a good look at us, at me and my now, without out doubt, reddened bottom.

Generally they were nodding and smiling and no one seemed to be too upset. No one decided to be my champion and try to rescue me.

He is a big fellow, that is true, but they were many and he couldn't have fought them all. The truth is that they enjoyed it too much

I could have understand if they crowd had consisted of his friends, the rowdy crowd that thought I had snatched him from them, and had made him into something less manly than they aspired to. Their view of manliness is not a pleasant one, I can tell you. Anyway, I could have understood if they wanted to see me getting spanked, but these were ordinary people, of all ages. Some of them far too young to be allowed to watch.

Then it took a turn for the worse. A well dressed, quite young man, approached us.

'Excuse me,' he said and cleared his throat.

My man stopped what he was doing and looked at him.

'Your hand must be sore,' the stranger said.

I was too relieved that the spanking had stopped to explain to this man that if something was sore it wasn't the hand that was spanking me. But before I could express my disappointment in his assessment of the situation, he continued:

'You should use this, instead.' With this he handed over a switch he most likely, and against regulations, had cut from one of the trees in the park.

'Thank you,' my man said and took the switch.

'You are welcome,' the other man said and nodded friendly.

Then it began again. My bottom was already sorely affected by the lengthy spanking I had received, but now it continued, this time with the help of a sturdy and supple switch.

Words failed me. I think I must have struggled quite a lot, because I noticed how my legs were locked under his leg and my arm was bent behind my back and was held fast. I had no means of escaping and for some reason I had decided that protesting only added to my humiliation. Still I couldn't endure the switch without a sound.

The impact was sharper and more poignant and to use the word unbearable wasn't wrong. He whipped me good and to my shame I had to admit that I was crying.

After a while I noticed a certain slacking of the pace and knowing my man I was sure he began to feel that it was enough. Not that it stopped him from keeping on for a good while, but I was right. My spanking was nearing its end.

He stopped short for a moment, then he gave me he a series of really hard quick licks with the switch, and I had no option but crying out loud.

Then it was over. He threw away the switch. For a moment there was silence. Then the crowd began to clap their hands. The bastards thought it was some kind of entertainment.

I don't exactly remember what happened next. I scrambled to my feet and noticed that I had no knickers to pull up. They must have fallen off during my ordeal. We hurried away from the crowd and I was more than happy to leave.

Soon afterwards everyone knew about it. As I said, this is nothing I really want to talk about, but since it is no secret, I have chosen to tell the story in my words. The fact that there was a picture in the local newspaper and two columns of text describing the event, didn't make it easier to pretend it never happened.

Do I hate him for it? I should. He is a bastard and he was wrong. No, I don't hate him. I love him. How could I not love him?

I told him what I thought about his actions and we had a row about it. This time there was a compromise. He didn't give in to my demand never to spank me again, on the contrary, he promised to do it more often, 'every time I need it'. But he promised not to do it in public, at least not as public as this time.