The Waiting Time

The clock on the wall ticked.

Lorraine deserved a spanking. Her office attire, a white blouse and black skirt, along with her unmentionables laid neatly folded in the seat of the armchair. Strands of her wavy hair tickled the top of the clothing pile while she avoided looking directly at the evidence of her embarrassing state. That she still wore her heels, that they in turn elevated her hips to the perfect height for bending over the armchair’s back, that conveniently positioned her bare buttocks for the spanking she deserved, only accentuated the absence of the clothing sitting in the chair.

The clock on the wall tocked.

This is the definition of irony, she thought. My clothes sit in a chair while I hang over its back.

The clock on the wall ticked.

An amused smile threatened to tweak her lips in the wrong direction. Lorraine suppressed the impulse with a quick glance in his direction. Brandon Cartwright sat across the room on the couch, leaning forward over the coffee table where a spread of papers and folders appeared to consume his attention. She knew better. Mr. Cartwright liked the view across his living room, the profile of a naked woman obediently waiting.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Lorraine closed her eyes, but the rustle of papers made it impossible to pretend she was alone. For the hundredth time, she wished for him to rise up and take care of the business between them. The strap laid on the coffee table awaiting the moment of its use. Mr. Cartwright pretended to ignore it as he pretended to ignore her.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She breathed and felt the exaggerated ripples of expansion and contraction travel through her naked body. A flicker of brown in the midst of white revealed Mr. Cartwright paying close attention to her every movement. She perceived his vision focused on the subtle swing of her free-hanging breasts and their pouting nipples. Hot-blooded embarrassment flushed her facial cheeks pink and then red.

The clock on the wall tocked.

In her daydreams, Mr. Cartwright had seen her naked many times. His expressive eyes had traced every contour of her bare flesh and his fingertips had caressed them all as well. In those dreams they were in his office, not his living room. And in those dreams, he had gently stripped away her clothing while her own fingers had ripped away at his. In his living room, he had ordered her to undress herself, while he stood safely out of reach and remained fully, professionally dressed.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Memory came toiling back.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Lorraine entered Mr. Cartwright’s office. The heavy wood door closed behind her with a muted thunk. She stepped to the center, between the two guest chairs parked in front of his desk. He leaned back in his black leather chair. His eyes were harsh, unblinking, as they scoured her body. She shuddered feeling naked despite the clothes covering her.

The clock on the wall ticked.

“I’m sorry,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Mr. Cartwright had nodded. “So am I.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

“It won’t happen again,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Mr. Cartwright had sat straight. He had pushed an envelope to the front edge of his desk. “You’re fired,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Tears had spilled onto her cheeks. She had dropped to her knees, her chin barely rising above the desk. “Please give me another chance,” she had begged. “I’ll do anything.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

His eyes had fluttered closed only to snap open at the sound of her final word. A spark of interest flashed across his face. “Anything?” he had asked.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had nodded. “Anything, just please don’t fire me.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had withdrawn the envelope and pushed it away inside a drawer. “Alright,” he had said. He had scribbled onto a small piece of paper and pushed it forward to the edge near her chin. “Meet me there at six,” he had said, “and don’t be late.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had arrived on time. Stood on his doorstep, nervously wondering why he would invite her to his home. He had opened the door, ushered her inside with a wave of his arm. She had walked with him to the living room. The only sound had been the clack of her heels on the tile floor of his entry and hallway. He had smiled. She had thought to wrap her arms around him and kiss him.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had stepped away from her. “Undress,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had blinked. “What?” she had asked. Her voice had been soft and free of objection.

The clock on the wall tocked.

“Undress,” he had said. His tone had suggested a severe dislike for repeating himself.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Her fingers had gone to work, unbuttoning her blouse. When it feel open revealing her flesh and bra-encased breast she had asked, “Why?” Her eyes had flickered toward his face while her fingers moved onward to the clasp holding her skirt in place.

The clock on the wall tocked.

His finger had pointed to the leather strap laying on the nearby coffee table. “I’m going to punish you,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Her skirt had fell to the floor around her feet. She had stared at the coffee table and the brown leather strap waiting on it. “I’m not a schoolgirl,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had nodded. “All the more reason you should have known better.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

His footsteps had taken him behind her. He had gathered her long hair away from her left ear and whispered into it. “You can leave your shoes on,” he had said, “but I want the rest of it neatly folded and resting in the seat of that chair.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

Her heart had pounded in her chest. She had trembled harder with each piece of clothing stripped away and her blood had pumped hotter and hotter until her entire naked body had been blushing. The clothes had seemingly folded themselves in her hands and when it had all been laid to rest in the seat of the prescribed armchair, she had stood staring at them and wondering how they had moved from the floor where she had originally dropped them.

The clock on the wall ticked.

He had nodded approvingly while looking over her nakedness. His hands had guided her to stand behind the armchair and then he had stepped away. “Bend over the back of the chair,” he had said. “You can wait like that until I’m ready to begin.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

She had complied. Her body had felt stretched and exposed. He had sat on the couch. She had wanted to ask for how long he expected her to wait, but the question seemed irrelevant and so she kept it inside.

The clock on the wall ticked.

And the moment arrived.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He rose from his seat and took the strap in hand.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She felt the leather tickling her buttocks with a light touch. He took aim. Her wait was almost over.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Silently Saying

I bet you think I’m sorry. Well, I’m not. I’m laughing at your serious pose and self-righteous stance. Not that you can tell, because I’m only laughing on the inside. You’re distracted by my ruined mascara and the glow of my sorely spanked buttocks. I bet you don’t see the smile on my lips. It’s not because it didn’t hurt. It’s just because you amuse me with your self-congratulatory tone and pointless lecturing.

You think because I cried that you’ve won. That’s not the case, it’s just an illusion I want you to believe. You were right and I was wrong, isn’t that the way it goes in your head? Well, I wasn’t wrong, or if I was, I don’t care. Next time, and yes, there will be a next time, I’ll just have to do a better job of not getting caught. So, enjoy your short-lived victory and I’ll just take a nap. Tomorrow is another day and I’ll be smarter and sneakier. Mark my words cause you won’t be marking my bottom again. At least not too soon, cause I’m not that dumb.

The Messy Kitchen

Uh-oh! Somebody left a mess.

The culprit has been found and dragged, almost kicking & screaming, to the scene of the crime.

Lucky girl! She gets to see the exact reason why her brush is smacking her backside while it's smacking her backside. The only thing confusing her is why she left the mess in the first place.

After exposing a little more cheek and moving her to a more spacious part of the counter, he really gets down to business. The brush is spanking so fast it's barely more than a blur to the naked eye, though I'll wager it's a bit more than that to her naked butt.

Time to clean up the mess, but just to make sure she remembers why she is doing it, her red bottom is left exposed. I bet she hopes no one else stops by the kitchen for a snack or a drink anytime soon!

Cleaning up sure would be easier to do if her bottom wasn't throbbing and making her dance around.

Spanking Story Concepts

One of the more difficult jobs I have in creating stories for Imagine The Stories is selecting which ideas to pursue and which to set aside. Many times I’ve been asked where I get my story ideas from and the truth is they come from everything and everyone around me. I encounter inspiration in nearly everything I do and that translates into literally dozens of concepts tickling at the back of my imagination. From time to time, one of those ideas will actually take over while I’m sleeping or sometimes, oddly enough, while I’m showering. Those ideas which grab me in this way often become a work in progress and eventually make it to being posted here and shared with all of you.

Of course there are also plenty of those ideas which eventually fizzle out and get relegated to my digital box of failed concepts. Sometimes these ideas get resurrected later and joined with other ideas that have a future and other times, they remain locked away and eventually they are forgotten. Interestingly enough, that doesn’t necessarily mean they are bad ideas, it just means I’m not the right author to construct them into something pleasurable.

The problem that buries more stories for me than any other is a failure in the story’s logic. Now, I know for some people, the logic of a spanking story is superfluous. Isn’t it all about baring a bottom, turning the bottom the color of ripened tomatoes, maraschino cherries, or the glowing red of a stoplight? Does it really matter what they did to end up, bottom up? For that matter, does anyone even care whether the spanking is deserved or not? Wouldn’t it be just as enjoyable a read, if the story contained nothing more than the overly descriptive details of a spanking in progress?

For me the answer to these questions is clear and resounding. I care about the details. If I can’t figure out why my heroine would allow herself to be spanked or would do something that could potentially end with her getting spanked, I can’t write the spanking into the scene. It has to flow, naturally, without defying the character I’ve designed or the rules of my characters’ world. In other words, I need a logical progression of events and consequences which make sense in the context of my characters and their fictional setting. When I can’t put these pieces together, my story falls apart and ends up in that doomed digital vault of failed ideas.

That could become the concepts final resting place or it could find itself being resurrected at a later date. Sometimes, after weeks or months of not thinking about an idea, it will return to me and suddenly my subconscious will reveal the solution to the problem which originally buried the story. Other times, I will be entertaining a new idea and realize that I can combine some of the material from an old idea with my new idea and form not only a better story, but finally a story where all the pieces click together.

An example of this may very well be a story I’m working on this week. Originally, an idea I titled Everton, was cast aside because I was lacking a logical reason for the central heroine’s journey and eventual resettling in the small town of Everton. After days of frustrating dead-ends I buried the concept and moved on, but my subconscious apparently continued working on the idea and a new story concept began to evolve with very similar circumstances. In my new setting, I resolved my former problem by changing some of the basics. My character no longer wants to settle in this small town, she’s forced to by a set of circumstances beyond her control. I even came up with a stronger motivation beyond just the events trapping her in place, to make certain her logic would force her to stay in this small town. It was called Everton, but it might get a new name now, especially since the story is no longer going to focus on the whole town, but rather a prominent feature of the town, a small hotel with a downstairs restaurant called, The Hickory House.

Now, I’m sure hearing the word Hickory rolling around in your head, you can’t help but think of paddles, switches, and spanking sticks, but there may not actually be any Hickory trees in the vicinity. The hotel is actually named for the family who owns and operates it. The current manager is a man named John Hickory. His father, retired from day to day operations, still owns the hotel and worries a little bit over the future of the place because John, is thinking about leaving the small town for good. This is the state of affairs when our heroine arrives in town. She, like John, has no real desire to be there, but together it seems they might just find a reason to stay. Of course, John will need to teach her a few things about responsibility and trust (I’m sure a few wood-based implements will be applied to her bare buttocks in the process). And she will have to teach John a thing or two as well. (No, she won’t be spanking John.)

With all my problems solved, I expect The Hickory House will be ready to share in just a few more weeks. I’ll keep you informed.

The Jade Runner, Part 10

Satisfied the visitors were out of hearing, Quinn turned to Kit. “You took a big chance there.”

Kit turned toward him. She slipped her newly acquired pistol into the left side of her belt and took Rex’s old pistol from Quinn’s hands. She slid it back into place on her right. “Would you rather we disappeared into some super secret lair never to be seen or heard from again?”

Quinn paused from checking over his concussion rifle to shake his head. “Of course not, but I would have handled it before things got that far.”

The sound of echoing footsteps caught both their attention. Rex Baxter walked into the hangar and waved at them like they were all old friends. Kit rested her right hand on the hilt of her pistol and took a step down the ramp. Quinn stayed a step behind her and lowered his rifle, pointing it in Rex’s general direction. Rex stopped at the foot of the ramp.

“Ahoy there, Captain Kid,” Rex said and chuckled to himself.

Kit asked, “What do you want?”

“Is that anyway to greet a friend baring gifts?” Rex asked.

Quinn said, “I think we’ve had quite enough gifts from you today already.”

Rex lifted an eyebrow. “Did I miss something?”

Kit shook her head at Rex and exhaled the frustration building up inside her chest. “Yeah, you missed three of your friends who were very interested in what you did with a sarcophagus.”

“Oh,” Rex said, looking around the hangar. “That’s all just a big misunderstanding. You see these people hired me to transport a sarcophagus from the Neece System and I was all set to do the job except they couldn’t get the permits from the local government. And as you probably know, it’s illegal to transport those kind of things without the proper permits.”

Kit nodded. “I know. They seemed to think you had brought it here for them though and were keeping it from them.”

Rex laughed. “You know some people just don’t take no for an answer.”

“So what is you want?” Kit asked.

Rex adopted his most serious pose which looked aptly like a fish out of water. “First off, I owe you both a big apology and even bigger thanks for last night.”

“Already forgotten,” Quinn said in a tone which promised the events would never be forgotten.

“Mighty big of you,” Rex said, tipping his hat in Quinn’s direction. “Second, I had this nice little transport all lined up for today, but without a ship I can’t very well fulfill my end of it.”

“And why is this my problem?” Kit asked.

“Problem?” Rex grabbed at his chest as if he’d been stabbed in the heart. “Why no, it’s nobody’s problem ‘cept mine. For you it’s a paying job and the best you’ll get with your lack of experience and reputation in the privateer circles.”

“Who says I want to be a privateer?” Kit asked.

Rex blinked faster than any man should. “That’s the only sort of work the Griffinscape is cut out for. She’s made for it tail to stern. I can’t imagine why else you’d have kept her if you didn’t want to get into the business.”

Kit glanced at Quinn, looking to see if his face had any clues to his feeling on Rex’s offer. She turned back to Rex. “My reason are my own and none of your business.”

Rex held his hands up in surrender. “Fair enough,” he said. “If you aren’t interested I’ll just call and cancel the deal. They’ll find someone else easy enough.”

Kit fondled her jade stone and chewed on her lip considering the option. “What do you get out this if I agree?”

Rex chuckled. “A fair share of the profit is all I ask and in return I’ll set you up with the deal and be your pilot.”

“I don’t need a pilot,” Kit said.

“I’m sure you’ve piloted your share of simulators, Kid,” Rex said, “but they ain’t the real thing. You’ll need my help and besides, my contact won’t be comfortable if I’m not aboard overseeing the transaction.”

Kit glanced at Quinn and then asked Rex, “How do I know you won’t try and steal the ship?”

“Did I mention the job pays a clean 10k?” Rex said.

Quinn took a step forward. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Rex rolled his eyes. “All I got is my word, but let me explain it in terms of money. You get 7k for the job and I’ll take a mere 3k, it’s not much sure but, it’s all I need to finance myself another ship and with my contacts I’ll have it paid off in less than a year and be sitting just as good if not better than I was last night.”

Kit and Quinn exchanged a glance. His tale made sense even if 3k was a bigger cut than they’d like to give him. The remainder would more than pay for the trip and it was enough, even split three ways to be more than either Kit or Quinn would normally earn in a month let alone the few days it would take to transport the cargo.

Rex sensed a deal and made the final push. “Look, you don’t owe me anything. I had a bad night and made some real bad choices. Without your help I’ll be paying for last night for a long time to come, but if you help me out here, I’ll have a chance to get back on my feet and I’ll owe you. Maybe you don’t think so right now, but having a guy like me owe you a favor can come in real handy.”

Kit shook her head. Jade whispered in her ear, Don’t be reckless. Kit turned to Quinn. “I won’t do it without you, but if you’re in, I’m in.”

Quinn looked at Rex with suspicion coloring his eyes. “Alright, I’m in. It’s got to be better than working in a damn casino.”

Kit smiled. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a deal, Rex. How does this work?”

Rex grinned back at Kit. “You won’t live to regret this, I swear. We need to pick up the cargo in about eight hours. I’ll finalize the details with my supplier and meet you back here in seven.”

Kit walked down the ramp and extended her hand to Rex. He shook it and tried to let go. Kit held tight for a moment and looked him in the eye beneath the rim of his hat. “If you try and screw me, I’ll put you out an airlock without a suit.” She let go of his hand when she was certain he understood.

He took a step back but before he walked away, he said, “Don’t worry, you aren’t my type Kid.”