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[Posted to soc.sexuality.spanking,
29 May 1998]
Hi. A lot of you have (politely) written to
tell both Pablo and me that you're really excited about our
meeting. (Me too). When I first started reading ASS, several
couples posted accounts of their time together. Those posts
were pretty inspiring to me during the months when I wondered
how we could make this work. I wanted to return the favour.
But writing about our play is really hard for me. I remember
it as a dream. I did write this though. It's the rewrite of
a letter from me to Pablo written the day that he left after
our first visit. It's pretty sentimental and maybe too sweet.
But it's the best I can do right now. I'm not sure I'm in a
writing mode. Anyway, thank you all for being happy for us.
I'm happy too, even though I seem sad. :)
(Remember that reading this isn't
I'm glad you made it back safely love. I've
been trying to think of what to write to you since I got home
from the airport. But I don't know what to say. Everyday was
wonderful in its own right. Even the very last moments in the
terminal when I knew I had to step away, let you say
'goodbye' and let you go. But it was really hard. I wanted to
ask you to stay with me. That wouldn't have been fair to you
and I knew it, know it. I really do. Still, as I watched the
plane sit there for thirty minutes I thought of all the things
I wished I'd said. Not just telling you again that I love you.
Though I wanted to say that over and over, to hear it even though
we both know. I wanted to promise you that I'd do my part to
make this work. That I won't be too difficult; I'll try not
to test limits while we're apart. Someday, I would have sworn,
I won't need to be punished for things I do wrong, but rather
as play that we do for each other's pleasure.
Most of all though, I wanted to look into
your eyes and ask you if you could imagine a life with me. If
it's okay now that I'm thinking about forever. I wanted to watch
your eyes react, see if the light in them ran for cover (a wise
move of course) or reached out for me.
I stayed and stayed at the airport. Even though
I couldn't see you I knew you were there. I watched your plane
get luggage loaded on it (including the last bits from inside
from people that tried to carry-on giant bags). I could hear
you joking that they were obviously American and imagined
pouting and squirting you with my squirt pen 'cause you'd be
right and I'd have no argument. The water would hit you and
you would swat me. Promise to spank me, later.
I couldn't stop crying. I found myself studying
your hand print on the glass just inside the gate. Our hands
on either side has been our last, closest contact until our
bodies meet again. I looked for the places the prints met, saw
where yours was different, longer, wider. I looked for imperfections
in the shapes of our fingers. Staring at your hand print I remembered
the sting of your hand when you spanked me the first time. How
it stung so very much - for both of us. I'm smiling now through
my tears as I remember your shock at the pain in your palm.
I remember sitting next to you as you sat
on my bed and said 'it's time' (though you'd been there less
than an hour). I remember trying to bargain for bedtime and
you reminding me of the pokes and pinches in the shuttle back
from the airport. You reaching out your hand and gently taking
mine. Guiding me over your lap. Making this both the first and
infinite time for us both. I remembered being held over your
lap as you handed me Herman and you whispering
"I'm going to spank you now Annie. Hard.
And it's going to hurt very much."
Suddenly I couldn't swallow, couldn't breath.
I heard myself sigh a bit. Wiggle careful. Say,
But after all, it was going to mostly be with
your hand. But after a few minutes I started to wonder if you'd
picked up that slipper again. Or if the swats, so fast and hard
were from a paddle. But when I looked back I saw only your hand
descending again and again. I squirmed and tried to get away.
"Where do you think you're going young
A pilot deadheading another flight from your
airline saw me standing there crying and came over and started
talking to me about the plane. Telling me how very strong and
fast it was. That they were waiting for a tow to take it from
the gate to the runway because such big planes couldn't go in
reverse. Like I cared. Like I could listen. All the while, I
was seeing you, your eyes, thinking of the way they soften so
suddenly sometimes, even when you are sooo irritated with me.
I could hear you say "oh sweetheart" as my eyes overflowed
I stood there by the glass where you last
saw me and remembered how nervous I was the first time I put
on my real school uniform for you. How carefully I ironed the
skirt's pleats and starched and starched the shirt. I thought,
what if he thinks I look silly, too old wearing this? Wondered
how much thicker though the waist the plaid skirt made me look.
I wondered if you'd notice my panties were new white cotton
that had been washed ('cause that makes them softer) but never
I was too shy to tell you that. Standing in
the airport, crying, I was also smiling (sort of a hysterical
combination). I remembered how my hands shook as I buttoned
the shirt, felt the cotton crinkle from the starch. Would I
measure up to the 'Mija' of your imagination? Of mine? I smoothed
the plaid skirt over the shirt, buttoned and zipped it. The
pleats end a few inches above my knees. I worried critically
that it is too short, wondered if you'd notice how it hikes
up a bit behind. The navy knee socks are a bit thinner than
I'd wanted, but were okay, the best I could do. My black shoes,
I wished I could polish them once more. I wondered if they would
seem right to you. Taking so much trouble over my appearance,
getting everything 'just so' - so unusual for me.
Really though, the tie was the amazing part
for me. In my mind I'd always imagined you teaching me to tie
it. And yet, as I waited for your knock, I nervously played
with it. And suddenly it was tied - and even the skinny end
was shorter than the fat. The neck of my shirt buttoned up and
I felt neat and 'ever so smart'. I stood by that glass wall
remembering standing in the corner of my room and finally wishing
even to do that one more time before you left. Remembered
your voice as you told me to not play with my skirt and stand
still. In my mind I heard you pull out the chair and fetch the
My eyes closed and tears spilled over again
and again. That pilot went on and on about the giant plane that
you were inside. I thought of every bad romantic movie where
someone gets off a plane and stays. I wondered what I'd do if
you offered to. I don't think I could let you give up your plans,
what you've always wanted to do, anymore than you would want
me to give up mine. At best we'd be delaying this and, ironically,
delaying the end of the separation. I choked, impressed with
our mutual self-sacrifice, and tried to decide who should play
us in the movie. Jennifer Lopez and Mel Gibson? <giggle>
Though he's too old for you. I started to laugh and imagined
your face at the suggestion. I wiped my eyes one last time and
tried to make myself believe that I was done with the tears.
Finally the tow came and backed the plane
away. Now you were trapped inside, not able to change your mind
if you wanted to. I watched it taxi back and forth and imagined
you inside, impatient at having to wait in your seat a half-an-hour
for take-off. I wondered what you'd thought about as you sat
there in the air plane, waiting to fly away home. I wondered
if you knew that I'd never felt more at home as I had during
our three weeks together. That by the end, I didn't care who
knew that you spanked me. Didn't care whether my neighbours
heard, or my family found out. I felt so proud to know you,
so proud of us both for waiting for each other. I wondered if
I'd ever feel so much at home again.
When I came back here I was surprised at how
much the same my room looked. The same as it did when you were
here. The same as it did before you came. The pillows the same
ones I'd bent over so many times in the past few weeks I'd long
ago lost count. I found myself going around the room and looking
for your stuff. Things you had left for me, things you didn't
bother taking for whatever reason. I gathered it into a pile,
my Tigger, the spanking game, a beautiful hairbrush. Piles of
coins. A Disneyland passport, a map of the 17 Mile Drive. Luggage
tags. A bag from Borders SF.
I remembered bringing you that book in Borders,
laughing. The first local interest book (on sex toys) I'd picked
up and the story in by Debbie Anne. I'd felt so at home, so
connected I remembered San Francisco as great great time. Amazingly
clear weather, being swatted on the street in Castro, neither
of us caring who saw what or what they thought. (Though had
you given me a choice <cough> I'd have suggested you close,
perhaps even lock the door of the room before taking that tawse
to me. At least they didn't have to stand outside and wonder
what the heck was going on in there. Sheesh!)
Memories of swats, of ever-more-public smacks
floated through my mind as I stared at the pile, reminded myself
you are real that you were here. I looked at the cane we had
received as a gift (along with careful instructions on its use)
and remembered that last very hard spanking, remembered my school
tie wrapped tight around my wrists and the headboard, the feeling
of the brush as it stung down over and over. The pain unbearable,
resistance the only possibility, then suddenly resistance, impossible,
the pain a reality, the knowledge that it was you spanking me
hard making me brave, lie still and even lift up a bit as you
whispered that I would not take another incomplete,
that I would tell you the truth. My relief was mixed
when you stopped and did not untie me.
As I lay there and breathed deeply, wishing
I could rub away the sting, I heard you pick-up the cane and
swish it. Listened to you talk about my goals, what you know
I want. I felt the sting as the strokes landed, cutting pain,
intense white behind my eyes. I counted 18 then stopped, counting
and focused only on the one I was feeling, tears suddenly leaking
out of the corners of my eyes. My sobs felt trapped in my throat.
I heard my voice break as I promised to be good.
I heard you put the cane away, felt you run
your hand over my bottom, gently squeezing the welts. I was
ready for you to hold me, maybe put me to bed. Instead I felt
the cold back of the hairbrush as you slid it over the soreness
then tapped it against me. Struggling for a moment until I realized
I couldn't get up. The taps first soft, then firmer. I felt
you move the hair gently off my face. Heard you tell me that
you would spank me steadily with the brush until time was up.
And not stop no matter what until time was reached. I remember
feeling afraid yet safe, knowing for certain I couldn't stop
the spanking. Couldn't move away. That last three minutes with
the hairbrush was different from anything I'd ever experienced.
I felt myself give up struggling. Everything clicked into place
and I heard my own sobs. Only fear of being overheard kept me
from wailing and screaming. I heard myself break-down like a
child. When you gathered me up afterwards, I wanted to tell
you how good I'm going to be now. Not because you punished me,
not to please you, but because I want to be happy. :)
I looked at the pile and wondered if somewhere
in my mess there was a stray slipper. Or did those both go home
with you? I started to cry again, gathered up my towel and took
a shower. I knew what I was going to wear. The warm flannel
PJ bottoms of mine and something of yours - the T-shirt worn
your last night here that you'd left behind, which I'd folded
and tucked under my pillow. I curled up in it, wrapped the quilt
around me tight and cried. As I fell asleep I heard your voice
"You know I'll always be here."
Yes, I know. Me too.
I love you Pablo,
to real-life accounts
to the treehouse