Saturday, 15 January 2011

Spanking story: The Russian Doll

Apologies for having disappeared from view for the past few weeks. What with Christmas and New Year and various illnesses and crises, there hasn’t really been much available time for blogging.

So, by way of apology, have a spanking story. On the house ;-)

This story originated from a single image…

…which weaved itself into a fantasy…

…which took hold and developed into a narrative…

The image was of a man sat in a chair. It’s past midnight, the darkness has that still, empty quality to it and it clamours all around the edges of this image.


The man on the chair is partially lit by the orangey glow of a table lamp. There is light but you notice the shadows more. The lamp has a triangular shade and looks dated. The chair is an armchair but looks firm and tightly-packed rather than comfortable.

The man is reclining but is clearly not relaxing. He is totally still and yet alert. The lamplight is reflected in his eyes, still and watchful.

He’s waiting, you see.

Waiting for me.

___


The Russian Doll


My legs are freezing.

Some people would say this is my own fault. Don’t I know it’s the middle of winter? But I would argue that this tiny dress was wholly appropriate for the evening I have just spent.

And my legs were perfectly toasty when I was gyrating around on the dance floor half an hour ago.

It’s hard to dress for both extreme heat and freezing cold simultaneously, you know.

I’m tempted to start running – that would warm me up – but I know I mustn’t make a sound. If I’m caught now, there’ll be trouble.

So I creep. It’s not a nice word but it’s the best word for what I’m doing.

I creep through the shadows edging the tree-lined driveway leading up to my halls of residence and I flinch whenever twigs and pinecones snap beneath my spindly heels.

It’s so late. Spotlights softly illuminate the grey stone fa├žade of this imposing Victorian building but all of the windows I can see are in darkness.

My head is throbbing – I can still hear the music ringing through my skull – and the biting cold is making me cringe and tense up. It feels like I’m being slapped awake over and over again.

I’m close now. I fumble with the tiny bag clamped in my armpit and retrieve The Key.

It feels cold and harsh between my shivering fingers. There’s no light to make it shine.

I back away across the frozen lawn, away from the softly-lit entrance and the darkness swallows me up.

Some people call me The Russian Doll here. I think it’s stupid, but these things have a tendency to stick.

I’m not Russian. At least, I don’t feel Russian. My grandfather was, but we never met and all I have left of him is my fair hair and a ‘funny’ name.

Names mean a lot to some of the people here. So Russian Doll, it is.

I think the ‘doll’ part is meant to be some kind of compliment, but you never can tell.

I’m right by the cold stone wall now, I’ve made it to the side entrance. It’s so black here, I need to feel my way to the door handle, to the key hole. The key scrapes – I keep missing the hole – and I cringe at the noise it makes. In this still, cold quiet, it’s a cacophony, a siren, a screaming snitch.

It turns, clicks. The door opens, quiet as anything. I can feel my heart going. I never believed it would be so easy.

I lock the door behind me – mustn’t forget – and quickly but silently put a few doors and corridors between me and Outside. The deeper I travel into the bowels of the building, the safer I feel. Possible excuses and cover stories multiply with every corner turned and staircase mounted. Even the tiny dress could be explained away.

I’ve stopped shivering. My legs are returning to their original colour.

A few more steps and I’ll be safe in my room and no one will ever be any the wiser.

I reach my door. My sanctuary, I take hold of the handle, hesitate, let go, and wriggle the hard little key back into my tiny bag.

I open the door.

How many steps do I take? Two? Three?

How many steps before I see him there?

Not many.

He’s so still that for a moment I can’t believe that he’s real. He could just be part of the shadows that surround him. A phantom. An after-image.

But I see the lamplight reflected in his eyes, see the tense lines of his arms resting on the arms of the chair and I know that he is real and awake and watching me.

Waiting for me.

“Close the door.” His voice is soft but with an underlying darkness, an edge.

I don’t move.

Now.”

I flinch as though he’s shouted. He hasn’t. His soft voice barely disturbs the sleepy quiet. But it feels like a shout, all the same.

My heart thunders in my chest as I reach back and gently push the door shut.

It closes with a muffled click.

And so it begins.

“Where have you been?”

I open my mouth. Close it. My mind has gone as numb as my bare legs.

He stays still and tightly coiled in my chair. The shadows on his face could have been painted on, they’re so still. But then I see his eyes flick downwards, taking me in. Every last incriminating detail.

His gaze hovers over the hemline of my skirt and I feel the blood rush to my face.

“I asked you a question. Now tell me: where have you been?”

“I was just upstairs.”

“Cold up there, was it?”

“No-“

“Then why are you shivering?”

Silence.

Lying has never been my strongpoint.

“Tell me, do you often wander upstairs in the middle of the night dressed up like a common little slut?”

I tremble at the insult but don’t rise. I know that’s what he wants.

“Well?”

More silence.

He sighs, an impatient sigh. “We both know that you haven’t been ‘upstairs’, so please don’t insult my intelligence. You’ve been out somewhere you shouldn’t have been and I want to know where.”

I stare at the floor, my heart pounding. Neither of us move: he stays reclining in my chair, I stay standing and shivering, feeling steadily more light-headed as the moments stretch out.

“I’m running out of patience with you.” There’s a growling undertone to his voice now, like the distant stirring of some terrible machine. “Where have you been?”

I force myself to speak. “I’ve been out clubbing.” I state my confession as baldly as I can, biting my tongue against the apology that tries to sneak out with it.

“I see.” The amount of disapproval that he manages to inject into those two syllables is astonishing.

“And have you been drinking?”

I know that there’s no point in lying anymore. “A little.”

“Have you taken any drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you fucked anyone?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No!” I protest, reeling at this rapid-fire assault.

Still, he stays in the chair, his eyes fixed on my face, his whole body tensed as though poised to strike.

He lets the silence drag out.

Finally he speaks and his whisper is so soft that I can barely hear it.

“Well this just isn’t good enough, is it?”

I shift my feet from side to side, more to try and generate some feeling in my legs than out of nervousness.

But I am nervous, all the same.

And I’m sure he can tell.

“You know the rules, don’t you?”

Silence.

Don’t you?”

I flinch. “Yes,” I whisper.

“And you know what happens when you break them?”

My insides lurch and tremble. For a moment, I look up and my eyes meet his. For a moment, I feel like nothing but eyes.

But then the blushing starts and I look back down at the shadowy, carpeted floor, mortified.

I sense rather than see him shift in my chair.

My heart pounds even harder.

The stillness was unnerving but moving is worse. Moving implies action. Imminent action.

In my peripheral vision, I see him stand. I watch his feet as he walks towards me.

Too late, I try to back away.

“Oh no you don’t,” he mutters under his breath, as he grabs my upper arm.

His hand feels so hot against my bare skin that I realise how cold I must be. He hesitates and then squeezes the flesh of my arm more tightly.

I blink against the sickly orange light of the table lamp as he pulls me within its glow, towards the bed.

Still gripping my arm, he drags both of my pillows down into the centre of the bed.

He doesn’t speak and I don’t struggle as he manoeuvres me down onto the bed, facedown, the soft pillows bolstering me up beneath my hips.

My dress is too short to protect my modesty in this position. He doesn’t comment and I am not foolish enough to attempt to rectify the situation myself.

How late is it now? 2am? 3am?

Too early for anyone to hear. To come running. To stop this from happening.

And now I hear the silky whispering of his belt sliding free of his trousers behind me and I forget all about everyone else.

There is only me and him.

Just us, in this dimmed, silent place. No one else matters.

I twist my head and watch as he winds the belt around his fist. He catches me looking and his expression becomes hard. “Head down. I don’t want to see your face.”

I hate not seeing, not knowing what’s about to happen or when it’s going to happen. But I obey, all the same.

I feel the mattress sag as he leans one knee against it.

I gasp as he wrenches my dress up over my hips with one vicious tug.

Then comes the gentle brush of leather against my bare skin as he measures his range… lines up the first stroke…

A moment of nothing. Silence.

I tense the muscles of my legs and screw my eyes tight shut.

“Count them.” His voice sounds far away.

But then the belt makes contact, that first wicked descent dragging me from an empty, unknowing anticipation into the pure blinding revelation of pain, and with that I am brought sharply back to myself. And nothing seems far away anymore.

“One,” I whisper. My voice is shaking already.

By the time we’ve made it to ‘six’, my voice has risen in pitch and my every breath is a trembling whimper.

By ‘twelve… oh please stop!’, each number is being preceded by a desperate cry, muffled into the bedcovers.

And still the strokes keep coming, his belt lashing my bottom and the backs of my thighs and, if I twist and writhe, the sides and fronts of my thighs as well.

And now he is thrashing me with such blinding speed and intensity, that there is no time – no breath – for counting. No moments of calm for a brief recovery. And all I can do is bite down hard on the duvet, flail and twist and kick, and make primal sounds of distress in the back of my throat.

The frenzy reaches its peak… and then subsides.

“I think that’s enough for now.” His voice is no longer soft; it’s ragged. He sounds like I feel.

I can only gasp and gulp for air, releasing the sodden corner of my duvet from between my teeth.

And now his hands on are on me, gentle but insistent as they draw me up onto my knees.

I crawl around to face him.

I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me with a kiss.

The kiss becomes a frenzy of its own and soon we are both writhing and gasping on the bed. Together, this time. Our passion muffled and intense.

Afterwards I lay my head on his bare shoulder and sigh. “Why do you always make it hurt so much?”

He kisses my forehead and I can feel his smile against my skin. “Because you like it.”

I kiss his shoulder and snuggle up closer against him. “Oh I almost forgot…”

I reach down the side of the bed and retrieve my tiny shoulder bag. “Mustn’t forget this, you said.”

And I hand him The Key.

***

2014 update: if you liked this story and are interested in maybe reading more of my writing, check out my Amazon Author Page here.

4 comments:

Bonnie-jo said...

This is hot! I was trying to figure out who he was from the beginning. Nice ending! I will be keeping these images with me. :)

Gracie Malling said...

Thanks Bonnie-jo - I'm really glad you liked it :-)

Anonymous said...

I liked this story, too. Thanks!

Indy

Gracie Malling said...

Thanks Indy! It's been a while since I wrote this kind of fiction, so it's nice to think that I may not entirely have lost the knack :-).