Spank or Treat 2014

by Anastasia Vitsky, et. Al.

  I went into my spiel about the desirable neighborhood and the curb appeal outside but said that, in my opinion, the inside was a little daunting.

  “What do you mean and how can I fix it?”

  “I suggested that I was no expert but there were people who staged houses for selling, and perhaps she could hire one of them to help her make whatever changes they thought necessary for a quick sale.”

  “I don’t like the idea of strangers coming through the house. My aunt lives in this house and I don’t think she would appreciate it either.”

  What a strange thing to say. I wanted to tell her that reminding buyers that someone died at the house was not a selling point, especially not this house.

  I suggested she might open the drapes a little to let in a little light.

  “The light hurts my eyes, and the sunlight fades the furniture. My aunt would not like that.”

  “I see,” I told her even though I didn’t. What did it matter what her aunt thought, after all she was dead. “Another suggestion is to make yourself scarce when any buyers come through. It makes them feel uncomfortable like someone is standing over their shoulder watching.”

  “I can do that, although I can’t do anything about my aunt, and I am quite sure she will be watching.”

  This conversation kept getting more and more weird, and I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. I’m a grown man and no longer believe in witches, vampires, ghosts and things of that nature but this was freaky. I know now the healing that took place back when I was a boy was a form of Reiki and the rubbing together of the hands was bringing in healing energy and that everything else was just the imagination of a young boy run amok, but I still had that creepy feeling on the back of my neck.

  “Thank you for your time. I wish you good luck in selling the home.” I left my card on the table, and I got my ass out of there hoping that I wouldn’t ever have to show that house to anyone.

  About six months later, I was attending a cocktail party for the Friends of the Library when a woman walked up to me.

  “Hello Jonas. I can call you Jonas, can’t I?”

  “Of course, but you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”

  “Oh yes, we’ve met. You’ve been to my home.”

  I am wracking my brain trying to place this woman and there is no recollection whatsoever. You would think I would remember a tall willowy woman with strawberry blonde hair and clear blue eyes, but I didn’t.

  “I’m sorry; I am embarrassed to say I don’t remember meeting you.”

  “Perhaps the address will tweak your memory. I live at 686 Old Mill Lane, Old Bridge.”

  She must have seen the immediate light in my eyes. “I see that it does. My name is Zelda Christianson.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say or do, so I just held out my hand to shake hers, and I felt an overwhelming shock of heat. I almost pulled back my hand, hers was so hot.

  “Yes, I do remember now. Did you ever sell your house?”

  “No, I never did. I decided not to sell. My aunt told me I should hang on to it for a time.”

  “I see,” I replied and once again I didn’t see at all. Was her dead aunt sending her communications from beyond the grave?

  I was desperately trying to extricate myself from this conversation when another older woman came over to join us.

  “Jonas, I would like you to meet Dorothy Bainbridge. She is my aunt and lives with me in that old rattletrap of a house.”

  She must have seen the breath leave my body with this revelation. She laughed out loud.

  Her aunt looked at her strangely, and Zelda told her it was a private joke between us. I kept standing there speechless.

  “I’m sorry I was being evil-minded both at the house and here. At the house, I could feel your nervousness, and I couldn’t help but feed into it. In my profession, I’m trained to observe and be aware of people and their tells. You never quite got over your boyhood fear of the house, and I took advantage of that. I deserve a spanking.”

  “You’re damn right you do. You are correct in that I probably did bring my boyhood fears with me on that trip to the house, but you did nothing to ally those fears. You said it was your aunt’s house, and it passed to you.”

  “It was and did. She deeded it over to me to avoid probate when the time comes.”

  “And all the other innuendos, were all to feed into my fear too.

  “Sorry, but yes.”

  ‘You’re right. You deserve a damn good spanking for that."

  Zelda invited me to her house for the following weekend. She was throwing a Halloween Party for friends and as a fund raiser for the Friend of the Library.

  “I think it might be catharctic for you.”

  “I can think of something else that might be catharctic for me, something a little more physical, but this might do.”

  Great, I’ll see you just after the sunset. That’s when the goblins come out of the woodwork, isn’t it?”

  ‘Zelda, I don’t know you well enough yet, but if I ever do, I’m going to heat up your bottom. However, unlike your aunt, I will be inflicting the pain and not relieving it.” She laughed and secretly hoped it would happen. She might just have to conjure up a spell or concoct a witches’ brew to facilitate events.

  “See you then my pretty,” and she gave her best imitation of the Wizard of Oz’ Wicked Witch cackle.

  Mistress Mine by Maren Smith

  They walked into the dungeon, not together, but with Miranda leading Ana on a leash. That was new. Perhaps it should have been degrading, but that’s not the way it felt. Not to Ana. She felt sexy. She felt wanted. It had been weeks since they had last played like this.

  Halloween was in full swing and the Castle dungeon, although usually immune to the passage of most holidays, reflected this one with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Vampires—both classical and new-age (Twilight cult ‘Edward Cullens’ and Bellas with sparkles) intermingled freely among the Bo Peeps and Little Red Riding Hoods. A plethora of Big Bad Wolves stalked the crowd. In the corner, a mummy dripping desiccated bandages busied himself wrapping his submissive in cellophane, a precursor to sensory play. His submissive, a dusky-haired middle aged man, already looked to be deep in headspace. With wrists bound to thigh-cuffs, his gaze was both attentive and dreamy as he watched each circling pass of the plastic wrap. Set to one side, the toys that would later be brought into play—a cup of ice, a variety of textured massage tools, Hitachi and violet wands, not to mention Wartenberg wheel, its pin-like tines peeking over the edge of a metal plate—waited on the fringes to be put to their pleasurable use. Ana shivered, wondering what her own dominant had in mind for her.

  Miranda was stunning. Her tight leather dress amplified the curves of her heavy breasts, slender waist and curvaceous hips. Bright red, the leather was the same color as her lipstick. Ana couldn’t image any woman being more beautiful and yet austere, more approachable and yet imposing all at the same time. Her long chestnut hair was gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes, painted in makeup so dark, seemed as black as midnight.

  Ana wasn’t beautiful like that. She was short, slight, her dark hair and eyes hardly above average attractiveness. She was Miranda’s opposite in almost every way, with her breasts so small they barely qualified as such, and yet, standing next to Miranda, she felt…if not beautiful, than wanted. Desirable. Wherever they went together, people looked at her, watched as she followed in Miranda’s sauntering wake.

  Goosebumps travelled her, and not because of her skimpy slave girl costume. It had taken months of living here, but she had eventually come to like having strangers admire her, and if they only did so because she was with the Castle’s most infamous Mistress, then so be it. They still envied her. Ana liked that feeling almost as much as she liked knowing Miranda was hers. Oh, she might be the one wearing the slave costume, and wrist and ankle restraint cuffs, not to mention Miranda’s collar around her
neck. In her hands she bore, as if it were an item of reverence, the riding crop Miranda was as fond of wielding as a Queen her royal scepter. But, Miranda was still hers, every bit as much as she belonged to Miranda—her lover, mistress and friend.

  Her fingers tightened around the crop. Already her bottom was tingling and she hadn’t felt a single one of those switch-like strokes in weeks. Other submissives weren’t so lucky, though. The Dungeon was a very crowded place. Everywhere she looked, bondage stations were in full use. There were spanking benches, padded crosses, massive wooden X’s to which both men and women were either restrained or clung to willingly while their dominant partners wielding floggers, paddles and canes. One frightening fellow swung his belt as if it were a bullwhip, leaving bright red lines of impact on his submissive the likes of which made Ana jump. How that poor woman managed to endure it, she couldn’t begin to guess. But that woman’s face was one of rapture and pain, and it was hard to tell which extreme overwhelmed her more with each loud crack.

  “See something you’d like to try?” Miranda asked, lowering her voice to bedroom huskiness, her words for Ana alone. Ana loved it when she did that. Not only did it make her bottom tingle faster, but a roll of heat began unravelling in her belly, flowing down in scintillating streams to dampen the gusset of her panties.

  “Oh hell no,” Ana replied, an echo of that heat rising up to kiss her face.

  Miranda smiled, her knowing eyes shining with thinly veiled amusement. “Come along, my lovely.” She drew on Ana’s leash. “We have our own scene to create and our room should already be waiting for us.”

  A room? Oh, what did Miranda have in mind for her? Ana was equal parts afraid to ask and jittery with growing anticipation.

  They skirted the mechanical winch where a priest was being hoisted by the wrists onto his tiptoes. His devil-dressed mistress toyed with his nipples as she readied him for the clamps she held in her other hand. Every muscle in his body was taut, slick with sweat. His strain showed in the pinch of his brow, but he offered no protest when she walked around him, scraping her fingernails along the stretch of his body. No, he definitely wasn’t protesting. In fact, were his erection anything by which to judge, he seemed to be enjoying his treatment at her hands.

  Ana followed Miranda through the entire length of the underground rooms until they came to a square chamber at the farthest end. Lined by doors, it was presided over by the Dungeon Master.

  “Dominick,” Miranda greeted, and the hooded man standing in the center of the room turned to face them. He looked like an executioner. Shirtless. The naked strength of his broad back and chest were every bit as imposing as Miranda in all her tight, red leather. He wore leather too, black pants and boots, black cuffs on his wrists that looked a lot like Ana’s, though she seriously doubted there was a personality anywhere in the Castle strong enough to dare putting him in bonds.

  “Mistress Miranda,” he replied, and probably gave her a smile although it couldn’t be seen through the mask. He was a big man, almost as big as Jackson, the Chief of Castle Security. Something told her the two-inch wide leather strap hanging from his belt was not an idle costume prop.

  “Is my room ready?”

  Glancing past Miranda, the Dungeon Master looked to Ana. “Number two is at your disposal. Do you need anything in particular? Thumb screws? Dilators? Bull whip?”

  “Stop trying to scare my submissive,” Miranda said, a touch exasperated. “How much rope did you give me?”

  “Enough to hang half the Castle.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a party?”

  “Sorry, but tonight, I desire only a party of two.” Clicking her tongue against her teeth, she led Ana into their designated room. Barely lit, it smelled of leather, straw and antiseptic. An electric torch on the wall cast a pall of poor light on the sparse equipment. If she listened closely, Ana thought she heard dripping, like a leaky faucet deliberately left on, though nothing glistened with wetness and the air did not feel damp. It might have been a soundtrack, piped in through hidden speakers to provide atmosphere. It was difficult to know for sure when she had strain to hear it over the eerie croon of Marilyn Manson in the outer dungeon and the talking, laughing, and in some cases, screaming of the other guests.

  Ana was brought to the center of the private room. The floor was bare here, all the furniture having been pushed toward the walls, leaving a single table piled high with multicolored lengths of rope not ten feet off to one side. Some of those ropes were neatly tied in bundles, but some were unraveled, and now lay looped and waiting for them. Directly above Ana’s head was a winch, just like the one in use by the priest and his Devil mistress. But the crowning article that drew Ana’s attention and held it was the full-length mirror—framed in ornately carved and black-painted wood, its massive oval of reflective glass held securely upright directly where Ana couldn’t help but see herself in it.

  “You remember our safeword?” Miranda asked as she positioned Ana so that her mirror image stood centered in the glass. What a strange thing it was, to watch Miranda’s fingers caressing up the length of her leash. She watched as if it were happening to someone else as she unclipped it from Ana’s collar and tossed it aside.

  “Peace lily,” Ana tried to answer, but her throat felt too tight. She had to clear it twice before she could manage the words.

  “This is the first time we’ve done this,” Miranda said, “so we’re going to start gently. Should you feel claustrophobic or if you decide you don’t like it, I want you to know I have this.” From the buckle of her belt, she pulled a small hooked knife. “This is for quick release only and I will use it if you need me to. All right?”

  Ana nodded, her nervousness at seeing that knife already fading beneath the buds of excitement sparking in her belly. She trusted Miranda. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.

  Caressing her fingertips up Ana’s arm, Miranda moved behind her. “Relax, lovely.”

  Ana complied as best she could, thrilling at the touch as Miranda’s hands settled on her shoulders. When she rubbed, Ana closed her eyes, savoring the closeness. Moments like this always felt like a rare indulgence of fine wine. It was intoxicating and left her aching for more, but when Ana reached for Miranda’s hands, wanting to touch her in turn, her Mistress removed herself from easy reach. She swatted Ana’s bottom, gaining instant stillness.

  “Are you going to be my good girl,” Miranda breathed behind her ear, “or my naughty one?”

  She began to rub where she had just struck and those initial nubs of excitement in her belly caught fire under her skin.

  “Good,” Ana said, turning her head in hopes of a kiss. Again, she was denied.

  The heat of soft breasts clad in tight red leather pressed into her back as Miranda sidled closer. Her hands drifted from Ana’s bottom, preferring now to cup the crown of each of her hips. “Do you think that will save you?” she purred.

  A shiver of raw lust rippled through her. “Oh, I hope not.”

  Miranda’s throaty laugh made her shiver all over again. She squeezed Ana’s hips. “Be careful what you wish for. I’ve told you that before.”

  Many times, but as she had each time before this, careful was the last thing Ana wanted to be. Her skin was prickling. Her nipples tightened, their anticipation of that moment when they too would take a turn under Miranda’s plucking, squeezing fingers building unbearably.

  A few hours ago, Ana had crawled into her slave girl’s outfit headfirst, but that’s not how it came off. Hooking the thin, sleeveless straps with her thumbs, Miranda nudged them from Ana’s shoulders and the scanty white tunic simply slid off her. It fell into a puddle of cotton folds around her waist before another nudge pushed the whole thing off her slender hips. It dropped straight to the floor, leaving Ana to stand without the slightest cloth barrier in Miranda’s arms. Her reflection looked like a dream…a soft, small submissive with aching nipples and swollen breasts and the softest blush of arousal spreading up from her
chest to touch her face.

  Miranda kissed her then, her silken lips brushing caress after teasing caress from the peak of one narrow shoulder, across the nape of Ana’s neck, to her other side. “Something simple, I think,” she decided, trailing the backs of two fingers under each of Ana’s arms to coax her to lift them above her head. “Simple but beautiful, and in your favorite color of purple.”

  That she would remember so small a thing as her favorite color made her heart flutter. That flutter quickened, however, when Miranda clipped her wrist cuffs to the bar of the winch. She didn’t hoist her the way the priest had been, but Ana was bound nonetheless, the illusion of restraint making her melt inside. Already she could feel herself beginning to drift, her awareness sliding into submissive headspace.

  Crossing to the table, laden with all those coils of multicolored rope, Miranda chose a violet bundle and unbound it with all the efficiency of someone who’d had a lot of practice. She found the center with equal quickness and when she returned to wrap that first loop around Ana, it surprised her when it felt nothing like the rope she’d seen in Wal-Mart and the hardware store. This was not clothesline or tow rope. It felt softer, though not as soft as cloth.

  “How does that feel?” Miranda asked, wrapping her chest—both above and below her naked breasts—constricting the coil in a way that was at once both confining and oddly comforting.

  “Different,” Ana replied, not at all sure how to describe it.

  “In a good way?”

  Ana nodded.

  “Good girl.” Miranda paused to kiss her shoulder again. “It’s not going to hurt, but I’m going to bind you tighter.”

  She wasn’t asking permission, but Ana nodded again and gave it anyway. Like an extended hug, loop after winding loop, knot after cinching knot, curled around her torso. Miranda wrapped tight and pulled tighter, turn after turn building a corset out of bruise-colored rope that left her breasts bare and travelled her from ribs to hips, giving Ana’s already slender frame an exaggerated hourglass curve.