“Here it is,” he said, still breathless. “The far south pasture. Want to take a short break before we ride back?”
Cindy took several deep breaths, tingles still running through her. “Oh yeah. I think you’ve given new meaning to that country-western song.”
“Which one?”
“‘Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy)’.”
“Ah, that one.”
“Yeah, we should rename it. ‘Ride A Horse – Ride A Cowboy’!”
Jake’s laughter echoed over the empty pasture. “Anytime, baby. We can go riding anytime you want.”
Girls Who Wear Glasses?
by Laurel Aspen
Tara blinked, opened her eyes and then instantly closed them. Oh God the light was so bright, searing her befuddled, barely functioning brain. What time was it? Oh no 11am, she never usually slept this late, half the day gone. Which day? Tara struggled to recall and opened her eyes again, just a fraction, enough to squint myopically at the digital clock next to her bed. Sunday. Yes, that was right, Sunday, because on Saturday evening she’d been at party. From which she’d somehow returned, thankfully to her own bed. Gingerly she began an appraisal of her body, checking for damage and clues as to what had gone on the previous night. OK, start at the top. Christ her head hurt; headache, parched mouth, sore throat, slight metallic taste; too much red wine you stupid cow. Skin dry, last night’s makeup clogging her pores, limbs aching from the effects of unconsciousness replacing proper sleep.
Tara hesitantly lifted the duvet. A skimpy silk vest, part of her party outfit remained mercifully in place but no sign of her bra. Knickers - or more correctly an equally skimpy thong also in situ - so it appeared she hadn’t scored. Thank goodness, if she’d been as pissed as her complaining body seemed to be indicating heaven knows what might have happened. At which tenuously comforting thought the bedroom door opened and an all too cheerful voice brightly announced: ‘Morning. Breakfast, if you can bear the idea, is served. Fresh coffee, toast and marmalade.’ Yeah, it smelt good and Tara was suddenly aware of feeling both hungry and thirsty, but who the hell was her benefactor? She fumbled for her glasses, eventually locating them under her pillow. Good job she hadn’t worn her contacts last night and crashed out in them or she wouldn’t be able to see at all. Perching the round wire frames on the end of her retrouse nose she peered inquiringly at the tall, nice looking, pretty much fully dressed and vaguely familiar male in front of her.
‘Ah yes,’ he smiled, ‘your expression speaks volumes.’
I’m guessing something along the lines of: ‘“Oh God, what time is it? What did I do last night? Who the hell is that?”’
Tara forced a wan smile, whoever he was the empathic stranger at least appeared house trained and unthreatening.
‘That’s pretty much about it,’ she confessed sheepishly.
‘Jack, Jack Selby,’ he introduced himself to her for the second time in 12 hours, ‘we met at my cousin’s do last night. You were apparently celebrating something.’
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ she replied briefly, sipping the coffee gratefully but declining to elaborate. Tara didn’t usually take sugar but black and sweet was just the job to kick-start her into full consciousness. ‘Penny’s do,’ she continued, ‘weren’t we talking at some point?’
‘For much of the latter part of the evening, I’m delighted confirm,’ smiled Jack, ‘got on rather well I thought, you invited me back here at any rate.’
‘Did I? Tara was puzzled. ‘Sorry,’ she added quickly, ‘no offence, but I wouldn’t normally do that on a first meeting.’
‘No, fair enough,’ responded Jack easily. ‘In my defence I’d cite the fact that Penny introduced us and there did seem to be quite a strong mutual attraction.’
‘We were snogging in the taxi weren’t we?’ asked Tara rhetorically, as another fragment of not at all unpleasant recall flashed through her jumbled synapses.
‘And here too,’ agreed Jack, ‘after which, well things went a bit awry.’
‘Oh Christ what did I do?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘No, but sooner or later it’s going to come back to haunt me, best get it over with.’
‘OK,’ leaning on the doorframe Jack regaled Tara with an edited version of events while she enthusiastically consumed her unexpected breakfast in bed.
‘After some pretty hot and heavy kissing and groping you decided we needed more wine.’
Wordlessly Tara buried her head in her hands.
‘It’s alright,’ he added quickly, ‘I managed to dissuade you,’
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
‘It then transpired that in addition to an absolutely wonderful pair of legs you have extremely sensitive nipples.’
Tara blushed. ‘Which would explain the absence of my bra this morning no doubt. What exactly was I wearing?’
‘When we first met the same top and thong as now, plus skin-tight faded jeans - showcased your fantastic bum to perfection as no doubt you intended - and perilously high heeled sandals on which you swayed ever more dangerously as the night wore on.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jack added as an after thought, ‘you didn’t start jettisoning clothes until we got back here.’
‘I played Steely Dan’s “Reeling in the Years” on the stereo didn’t I?’ sighed Tara.
‘Yeah, what made you remember that?’
‘I don’t, I just have a tendency to follow the same pattern when pissed; loud rock music accompanied by an impromptu striptease. What happened after that?’
‘Um, you became rather aroused,’ explained Jack, ‘and suggested that - not to put too fine a point on it …’
‘I’d benefit from a good stiff cock?’ Tara completed the sentence, flushing scarlet. ‘Oh Jack I’m so sorry.’
‘Hey no need to be, it was the best suggestion I’d heard in months. Trouble was the alcohol had clearly hit you hard so it just wasn’t on. You really didn’t know what was happening and there was no way I could take advantage.’
Tara’s face lost its smile, this was no longer amusing, she’d put herself in real danger.
‘I mean I wanted to but…’ Jack let the sentence trail away.
‘Anyhow,’ he continued brightly, ‘so’s not to hurt your feelings I claimed not to have any condoms.’
‘Did it work?’
‘No, you said “sod it let’s do it anyway.”’
‘Oh shit!’
‘I managed to talk you out of that too, only to for you to go of on another tack and decide I deserved a blow job.’
Tara’s blush turned beetroot. ‘I always find it helps break the ice with strangers,’ she said with heavy irony.
Jack grinned again, a boyish sparkle in his eyes, ‘anyway you dived at me, unzipped my jeans, pressed your face to my crotch, and promptly fell asleep. Obviously I was flattered; I guess it must be my charisma.’
‘Jack, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say.’
‘How about “I’ll meet you for tea this afternoon?” When you’ve had a chance to recover, at the café in the park across the road.’
‘You want to see me again?’ Tara couldn’t believe it.
‘Of course,’ said Jack simply.
‘But I behaved so badly…’
‘True, but come on, everyone’s done something similar, I mean it’s not as if you make a habit of it.’
‘I really don’t, honestly,’ said Tara fervently, ‘I haven’t done anything that stupid since I was student. But why, after such a performance would you want to risk another encounter.’
‘Because you’re smart, funny and good looking for starters.’ Tara began to object but Jack silenced her with a gently raised hand. ‘Honest, self-deprecating and not up your own arse like so many writers.’
‘How do you know I’m a writer?’
‘Meet me at the café and find out. Look I must dash, places to be, folks to see. Four o’clock alright?’
Jack was already there when Tara turned up. His back was toward her and she took a moment to privately assess his physical appearance. Slender and sunburned, the sleeves of his worn but expensive linen shirt turned back to reveal muscular forearms and the tantalising hint of a tattoo.As if he sensed her presence, Jack turned and smiled.
‘Hi Tara, feeling better?’
‘Much thanks, perhaps, ’cos I rarely have them my hangovers are thankfully short-lived, plenty of mineral water and a long shower does wonders for a girl.’
‘I see you’ve dressed to impress again.’
Tara took the compliment with good grace. Why not? She’d spent the last hour making sure she looked great. A floaty, almost see-through top, short flared skirt, black sheer tights and knee-length, narrow-heeled boots.
‘When you’re short of bosom it’s best to divert attention to other assets, in my case the long legs you mentioned,’ she said, sitting elegantly down.
‘Don’t be so self-critical, I have fond - albeit brief - memories of your boobs,’ grinned Jack wickedly.
‘Oh good another conversation which begins with me blushing.’
After which opening pleasantries she did her damdest to find out more about Jack. Without a deal of success for his replies were pleasantly opaque and the conversation invariably skilfully diverted back to her. Jack, she gathered, travelled, took pictures on commission for galleries and publishers and, well that was pretty much it. A good listener, he obviously preferred talking about others, except to flavour the discourse with the odd tantalising anecdote.
‘So you’re a writer,’ he said at length
‘How did you know?’ replied Tara, recalling the earlier revelation.
‘Because Penny said you were a freelance journo and because the reason for your secret celebration is on your kitchen table.’
A cold hand clutched at her stomach, Tara’s face went pale, and she suddenly felt as if the life had drained from her soul.
‘You found…’
‘Tara I wasn’t searching, but the book and the letter were there when I made the coffee. Sure I admit it, in the hour or so while I waited for you to surface I read some of your short stories, but then they are now in the public domain. Although under a nom de plume; “Ms Celia Strictland”.
‘Not fair, that was the publisher’s suggestion, this is the first book I’ve done, I didn’t like to argue,’ mumbled Tara, gaze downcast.
Jack continued, ebulliently.
‘Amazing stuff, erotic fiction for women with a CP theme. Your writing is extremely talented, page-turning narrative, good characterisation and very, um, stimulating action. You’ve one hell of an imagination Tara, unless your fiction is based upon experience?’
Tara knew a loaded question when asked. ‘It’s all hypothetical,’ she ventured after a lengthy pause.
‘Something must have informed this interest,’ he pressed.
‘Ever since I hit puberty spanking is something I’ve imagined,’ Tara ventured cautiously.
‘So always in sexual context?’ Jack was clearly intrigued.
‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Tara, ‘I had liberal parents who’d be appalled at the idea of hitting a child and corporal punishment was rightly abolished in schools years before I began my education. For ages I’ve dreamt of being spanked, become aroused by my own feverish imaginings. Heck, since this turning into a spontaneous confessional I’ve frequently masturbated to punishment fantasies.’ Tara’s eyes blazed fervently. ‘It’s probably hard to credit but you’re the first person I’ve ever admitted this to.’
‘And in these romanticised daydreams you’re always taken to task by a male?’
‘I know, dreadful isn’t it? A feminist’s worst nightmare,’ Tara giggled beguilingly as she sipped her coffee, ‘yes, emancipated as I am in real life, I always envisage being mastered by a muscly bloke.’
‘But if you’ve never experienced a spanking how do you know enough to write stories about it?
‘Well the stories aren’t solely about spanking,’ pouted Tara, not best pleased by this slight on her credibility. ‘There’s a lot of sex included and that’s something of which I do have pretty broad and direct knowledge. Besides, I’ve sneaked into town and bought magazines, books similar to the one I’ve recently written. Even purchased a few expensive and mostly disappointing DVDs.’
‘Disappointing?’
‘The British ones are obsessed with the punitive aspect and it’s always some horrid ugly old bloke beating a beautiful young woman. As if! I have seen an excellent US DVD with a plausible plot line, an attractive couple and a spanking which really turned the girl on, culminating in believable sex.’
‘Closer to your ideal?’ Jack leaned forward; the conversation was becoming progressively more intimate.
‘Yeah, similar to my stories. Not surprisingly since I started writing them for personal amusement. I began after reading some of the stuff in the shops and realised I could do better.’
Tara stopped, aware she’d monopolised the conversation for most of the last 10 minutes. Once again Jack had contrived to get her talking about herself.
‘Enough imagining,’ he said decisively, ‘time to experience a real-life spanking I suggest.’
She hadn’t seen this coming. ‘What!’ Tara was genuinely shocked. ‘You mean you and me?’
‘You know you can trust me, last night demonstrated that.’
‘True enough and I’m grateful really but…’ Tara’s brain was a whirl, the idea was by no means immediately abhorrent, quite the reverse in fact, there was certainly something commanding about Jack and physically he was definitely her type of guy. And wasn’t this exactly the sort of scenario she’d invented a 100 times?
‘Last night also showed you acting in a foolhardy, very risky way. Hardly responsible adult behaviour and eminently worthy of punishment,’ Jack wasn’t going to let Tara off the hook.
‘How come you’re so expert?’ she replied, a hint of desperation in her tone.
‘Not expert but my life has fortunately proved varied,’ said Jack easily.
‘And you’ve spanked women before?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Jack with a smile which managed to remain just the right side of smug, characteristically he didn’t elaborate. ‘So Tara,’ he went on in an assured tone. ‘Let’s assume the principal of your punishment is agreed so there remains only the detail to be thrashed – sorry, couldn’t resist it – out, what’s an appropriate penalty for such delinquent behaviour do you suppose?’
‘I get spanked,’ began Tara tentatively, hardly able to believe she was speaking the words. ‘Over your knee,’ she added hesitantly, ‘on my bottom,’ her voice sunk to almost a whisper, ‘skirt up and knickers down probably,’ she could no longer look Jack in the face, ‘on my bare bottom. Quite hard.’
‘Goes without saying,’ replied Jack nonchalantly, ‘these are serious misdemeanours young lady. And what else what might you have in your flat which could be pressed into service?’
‘I, I…’ Overcome with nerves, Tara couldn’t find her voice.
Her face burned, a shiver of anticipation coursed through her veins, a sharp twinge of arousal simultaneously assailed her groin.
‘Speak up please,’ Jack demanded firmly.
‘About a year ago I bought a leather paddle in one of those new women-only sex shops. I loved the feel, so tactile, and the smell, so evocative.’ Tara clenched her fists tightly forcing the words out in a rush. ‘I tried using it; sort of self-flagellation but that didn’t really work. I’m sure you could apply it expertly.’
Well that was it, in the words of the old soul classic: “Signed, sealed, delivered I’m yours baby.”
‘Yes I’m sure you’re right,’ responded Jack calmly, leaving enough cash on the table to cover their drinks and taking Tara by the hand. Back at her flat Jack moved purposefully and with a minimum of conversation. Seating himself in an upright
chair he beckoned Tara to him. ‘I shall begin by administering a sound spanking’ he announced shortly, ‘it is entirely in your interest to cooperate, to which end start by raising your skirt clear of your behind and get across my knee.’ Heart pounding, knees knocking, Tara obeyed, slowly gathering the hem of the diminutive garment and hesitantly gathering it around her waist. Rather than the expected expression of approval Jack glared at her.
‘I don’t like tights,’ he said shortly, ‘in future stockings and suspenders or bare legs under a skirt please Tara.’
‘Future?’ thought Tara momentarily but had no time to pursue the notion being suddenly more preoccupied with her new undignified position facing the carpet. Head down, toes on the floor she waited apprehensively not daring to look over her shoulder.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Jack irritably after a moment’s pause, ‘stand up again please.’
Puzzled by this untoward turn of events Tara struggled to her feet.
‘I know from previous experience just how hard these wretched garments are to remove once you’re in position,’ grunted Jack crossly, ‘consequently we’ll have them down now.’ So saying he tugged her tights and knickers into a tangle around her knees.
Tara gasped in shock and surprise.
‘It’s no good complaining girl,’ continued Jack firmly, ‘you’ve only yourself to blame and as a consequence of presenting yourself inappropriately attired we’ll start on the bare.’
‘But you never specified what clothes I was expected to wear,’ wailed Tara indignantly.
‘Of course not,’ responded Jack crisply, ‘why should I? Tell me Tara, how many of your CP stories feature what our US cousins inelegantly term pantyhose?’
‘Fair point,’ conceded Tara and prudently ceased complaining while being upended for the second time in as many minutes. Once more she waited, tensing her buttock cheeks against the anticipated first blow.
‘We can linger like this all day,’ announced Jack calmly, ‘although I suspect you’ll fairly quickly find this arrangement uncomfortable. Or,’ he continued sarcastically, ‘you can relax your buttocks and allow me to begin’.
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