HEAT: A Short Story

[petermcwade]

August. Imagine a Saturday afternoon. It’s 2 o’clock and
the Manhattan heat is heavy. The sun is clear and blinding.
Downtown’s weekend quiet is almost artificially still.
The sense of peace is almost painful.

Focus on the 37th floor of Battery Park Tower: a large,
corner office with opaque wrap around windows, hardwood
floors, and an old, elegantly battered chemin de fer table
that appears to be the only thing in the executive suite
that resembled a desk.

The light is surprisingly mellow, softly refracted and
sufficiently diffused by whatever miracles of science
the engineers employed by the architects had worked. The
air was cool. Almost cold. And ever three minutes or so there
was the faintest suggestion of a breeze. A whisper, but
real.

She lay across his lap, not unlike a naughty girl -- or maybe
a pouty teenager, or even a willful young bride. Her strappy
sandals were neatly stowed under the table, the skirt of
her flirty Summer dress was tucked up around her waist,
a translucent pair of pure white panties were rolled --
with a sense that was in no way casual -- at the hollow of her
knees.

Her toes, with neat red lacquer, were doing an intense
but -- considering the circumstances -- very restrained
dance on the floor as he slapped her exquisitely spankable
bottom with a an intensity that varied from casual to nasty,
and from nasty to nastier, and from nastier to nastiest
-- until he relented… and became very gentle indeed.

Gentle has its place in the lexicon of discipline, especially
with a well-trained girl like her. She was, of course, only
a girl in the colloquial sense that men who love women refer
to their conquests -- real or imagined. But for him she was
very real. Very married. And very pretty.

But gentle was the exception rather than the rule this
afternoon. And he spanked her bare bottom -- how he loved
the thought of her “bare”, the sound of each slap, and the
fact that she was his to punish -- with the casual authority
of one who could give lessons in the art of discipline.

And it was an art, a performance of sorts -- especially
with a 38-year-old girl – who was willing to be taught, wanted
to be taught, needed to be taught not only how to submit,
but also to recognize her own very special place within
the drama that was theirs.

He stopped and rested his palm on her left bum cheek.
“It’s nice and warm, “ he said, caressing her flank and
slipping his fingers ever so fleetingly between her thighs.
“Yes, Sir, ” was all she said.

All was quiet while he ran his palm over her very warm backside.
As he listened to her breath (slow and steady and punctuated
by an occasional little sniffle) he smiled. She was trying
to be a good girl, to take her spanking as she had been taught.
He thought of speaking, but settled on silence instead.
He kept rubbing; admiring the once peach skin he had spanked
(first) a blushing pink and (now) a deep shade of rose. Her
fanny would be a nice deep red before the afternoon was over.
SLAP! He spanked that deliciously tender spot where her
thighs met her buttocks.
SLAP! He spanked again. SLAP! And again. SLAP! And again.
She stared to squirm. Well, not just yet. But he knew her
body so well that he sensed a squirm coming.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
“Young.” SLAP!
“Lady.” SLAP!
“Keep.” SLAP!
“Still.” SLAP!
“If.” SLAP!
“You.” SLAP!
“Know.” SLAP!
“What.” SLAP!
“Is.” SLAP!
“Good.” SLAP!
“For”. SLAP!
“You.” SLAP!
She tried. She really did. But she couldn’t help herself.
In spite of all her training, in spite of all her good intentions,
she just couldn’t help herself.
He smiled again, this time more broadly.
“Honey, ” he said almost in a stage whisper. “What are
you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Sir. I really, really am, ” she said, her voice
almost cracking.
He massaged her bottom rather vigorously, giving her
a few vicious little pinches in between rubs.
SLAP! “I’m sure you are.”
“I AM, Sir, I’mmm….”
SLAP-SLAP!! SLAP-SLAP!! He issued two very hard stingers
to each side of her bum.
“I bet you are, ” he said in a mocking deadpan. SLAP-SLAP!!
SLAP-SLAP!!
“You know what happens to squirmy little ladies?” SLAP!
“Yes, Sir.” She was trying for a bit on bounce in her voice,
hoping that a bit of carefully calculated good cheer might
save her stinging sit-down-upon the fate she knew was coming.
SLAP!
“The hairbrush. Sir.”
SLAP!
“The hairbrush, Sir.” SLAP! “The hairbrush, Sir.” SLAP!
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! He was mocking her, of course. Having
a little fun at her expense. He knew she still – even after
all this time – hated to recite, hated to say out loud what
they both knew was inevitable: That her very bare, very
sore, very red bottom was going to get even more sore, and
even more red.
SLAP! “Please, ” he said.
SLAP! “You.”
SLAP! “Should.”
SLAP! “Know.”
SLAP! “Better.”
He leaned over and gently but firmly, took her by the head
of her hair and slowly turned her face towards his.

“Be a good girl now, ” he said in a very stern voice. “Be
a good girl now and tell me what happens to little misses
who don’t know how to stay still while they get their bare
bottoms spanked.”

She gulped, waited a second or two, and -- her courage screwed
up – said slowly and clearly and ever so carefully:
“A girl who squirms, or moves, or wiggles without permission
while she’s being punished gets another fanny blistering
with the hairbush.”
There. She said it.
SLAP! “Sir, ” he reminded her. SLAP!
“Sir, ” she almost wailed. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’m, sorry.
You know I get embarrassed. I’m really, really, really
sorry, Sir.”
SLAP! “I know, Little One. I know.” SLAP! “And you are going
to be sorrier.” SLAP! “Aren’t you?” SLAP!
“Yes, Sir. I am, Sir, ” she moaned.