Tuesday, 19 July 2011

It Becomes Real

Torrey was from New York City, Lower West Side of Manhattan.  She found herself working over here for a talent agency.  She as in her mid thirties, curvaceous, with messy long auburn hair and an even messier life.
Torrey just took a huge bite out of life before working out how to chew it.  There was too much to her.  She lacked focus.  She'd been bouncing between partners and jobs and credit cards and although superficially the life and soul, inside she was empty.
She needed stillness, a bit of meditation, maybe.  Something to concentrate her whole attention on for an hour or so.   Believe me, being pinned over someone's knee whilst he pays blistering attention to your rapidly warming backside concentrates the mind wonderfully.
I'm an actor.  Like most I'm in and out of work and this particular afternoon I was "resting" in a spanking chat room.  They are great places to meet spanking friends, if you take the trouble to introduce yourself and join in the chat.  It's useful to chat about the "real" world outside of spanking.   It's nice to know the hand belabouring your bottom belongs to someone trustworthy and safe.
Torrey came in, firing on all cylinders about some injustice on the site.  I just mentioned that the site is privately owned,  not a democracy.  I added that she was a guest and should behave with the courtesy of a guest.  Not aggressive.  Just polite.  But firm.
A pop up window opened.  Would I care to chat?  A chastened Torrey apologised to me for mouthing off.  She just didn't know where she was at the moment.  Life was a blur for her.  She was losing control.  Something about what I said cut through that confusion for her.   Could I come over and set her straight?
A brief phone call - ALWAYS phone - some aftershave and a ninety minute drive later I was outside her front door.  I was waved into a room full of used plates, full ashtrays, and laundry.  Somewhere under that mess was a bed and a computer.  Torrey was wearing a grey jersey dress whose skirt barely covered her hips, and thick woollen stockings.  The pink gap between stocking and hem caught my eye.   I refused a coffee.
This was not to be her first spanking.  From an Irish family, she's been the wrong end of a nun's paddle in her private school.  It was not an uncommon thing.  The paddle, about two feet long and nine inches wide, hung behind the teacher's desk.
"Torrey McMahon, step into the hallway, please".
She knew there was no alternative, and would stand, knees like jelly, breathing full and heavy as she walked to the classroom door with every eye on her.  Her mouth had gotten her into trouble again, and she reluctantly would place her hands on the wall and stick her butt out whilst the sister of no mercy swung he bat high and fast.  One Two Three, Over in a flash.  Her face as red as her jean clad bottom, and pricked with tears. The experience changed her.  She knew now that she could be reined in.  She liked the knowledge that she could be pulled up short.  The boundaries gave her security. Security made her happy.  She kept the nuns busy.
As the time I had not experience with implements.  Honestly, apart from a pillow or cushion or two I had precious little experience with my bare hand.  My heart was racing.  This wild redhead needed some therapy,  I had to get a grip on myself.
"Well"?  she asked, staring at me from across the room.  "Are you going to put me over your knee or what"?
I snapped into Spanker Mode. My friendly demeanor dropped.  I was cold.  I was in Control.
"Come here right now, Torrey", I managed in my sternest voice.  I found a sofa behind me and, maintaining eye contact, sat down.
"You know why I'm here, don't you"?  She nodded.
"Lift your dress, please, Torrey".
You could almost smell the adrenaline coursing through both of us, as, without hesitation, her hands found her hem and she revealed her big white knickers to me.  They partially covered a slightly plump, deliciously round tummy.  I could trace the outline of her sex through them and detected the faintest aroma of her desire as I peeled them down to her ankles.
"Assume the position, please, Torry".
Without any reluctance the pocket venus was settled over my lap, head resting in her hands on a cushion.  Her auburn hair covered her face.  I pulled the ringlets back to make sure he had an airway.  More importantly, I enjoyed the feast presented before me.
To work.  Her bottom was fairly large.  It' a preference of mine, although I spank a person, not a bottom.  I rubbed.  Some say rubbing makes the bottom more relaxed and sensitive; others say it relaxes the spankee, making the first spank all the more memorable.  It just felt appropriate here.
My first spank in anger.  To the right cheek.  A little involuntary movement. A ripple.  A light pinkness.  I was i n business.
To the left.  A little kick.  Her cheek rippled and bounced back into shape with a delicious wobble.
I gripped her tightly with my left arm circling her waist.  She relaxed  into me.  I struck again.
And again.
I built up the speed and intensity, reaching a crescendo of heat before pausing to rub and awaken her numbed bottom.  She was focussed.  Her legs parted slightly.  She was no longer "in the room".
WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP.  Four sharp reminder landed on the back of her thighs.  She tensed up, her bottom rising to meet each swat.  She was awake, alive, totally in the moment,  trying to cope with this shower  of pain.
My hand began to numb.  Manfully I set about my task, allowing her to concentrate only on her suffering, letting her cares drift away for an hour. Centring her.
WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP.  He whole bottom was afire now.  Red and boiling to the touch.  She was mine to take now - offering herself to me with her posture.  But even a rake and bastard like me is a gentleman sometimes.  I concentrated on the task in hand, bringing a little order to Torrey's chaos.
"You've let this place go, Torry"!
"Yes WHAT"?
"Yes, SIR"!
"And I want to see this place cleaned up by next time, Torrey.  Understood"?
"YES SIRRRRR"  The high yelp and burr of her New York accent reached something inside me.  I could not punish her any more.
I slowed the spanking down, winding down the intensity of the blows, taking her down gently, while she was engulfed in her own thoughts ans endorphin rush.  A rub, some trusty Arnica cream to bring out the bruising and speed up recovery, and in a minute I was cupping her smiling face in my hands.
"You're worth more than this, Torrey.  You're smart, you're talented.  You've just lost sight of yourself.  Start by getting the place cleaned up, then you can file your stuff, and take a bit of control back.  You're capable of anything".
To be honest I was winging it here.  My own house was a mess after I'd been away filming.  I had, to be honest, let myself go.  But that's not what she needed to hear.  She needed confidence in me.  She needed be to be the firm but fair Mentor she had met in the chat room. That's what I delivered, despite my nerves and excitement.
We hugged and chatted for a while, then we kissed and I left - my hand and her bottom tingling at the memory.
She's still a mess.  Spanking doesn't actually "cure" anything.  It scratches an itch, maybe, and maybe with regular repetition it sinks in.  Maybe it reinforces an argument.  It's certainly cathartic and certainly a way of unblocking dammed up emotions, as we shall discover later.
But I was on my way.  Curing world naughtiness, one bottom at a time.

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