Losing It- His Perspective

Her perspective can be found here

He watched her from across the table, her small, trembling hands picking the drink up over and over, taking the smallest of sips before carefully setting it back down. There was purpose in everything she did, he realised, even the placement of the glass. Each time she set it down, she waited until the condensation formed an ephemeral ring on the table, building into the spiralling pattern. Were they petals of a flower? Turns of a spring? Or perhaps just a subtle method of counting sips.

She was certainly taking her time with the drink. He had hoped it would relax her, though at the rate she was drinking, dehydration may be a bigger concern. Perhaps that was her goal- not the dehydration, but to retain her sense of anxiety. Perhaps she was too nervous to allow the alcohol to ease her into this first experience.

He admired that in her. He well remembered the anxiety of his own first meeting, and admittedly there was much less to be fearful of from his side of things. He hadn’t been facing pain, exposure, or a lack of control. He had fears, to be sure, but they were of a more subtle variety. He knew that he wasn’t about to be in any sort of immediate physical danger, though he had plenty weighing on his mind.

It was not that different from when, as a child, his grandmother had asked him for assistance in bringing down the good china set. His development in height had outpaced his development of coordination, a potentially disastrous condition of which he was well aware. He had been honoured that she trusted him enough to ask for his assistance with the priceless antiques, and had been honoured to dine with her using them. However, while balanced on the stool, bringing down each of the delicate pieces until the set stood unlocked, assembled, and ready for duty on the dining table, he had been too focused on not damaging them to truly appreciate their value.

Veronica had not been all that different. She, too, had many priceless things locked away within herself. Things that she had for some reason trusted him to help her unlock. He had been very careful at first- too careful, he now realised. She was no delicate piece of porcelain, and she needed more forceful attention. They had learned together, slowly, as their trust and love grew, but he had never lost the odd mix of feeling- honour, elation, and a touch of disbelief- that she had chosen him with whom to share this part of herself.

He wondered briefly where she was now, and if she had found someone new all those miles away.

“Yes,” the voice from across the table brought him back to the present, and he focused his gaze on the woman seated across from him. Their eyes met briefly before she dipped her gaze again, studying the pattern she had created on the table. He waited a moment, giving time to allow her to gather her thoughts to continue, or perhaps just to recover from the significance of her decision to let him in.

“I’m honoured,” he responded once it was clear that she had nothing else to say. He tried to sound assured, to mask the overwhelming feeling of relief. He had so hoped that she would agree, that she would submit, but it had to be her choice. There would be plenty of time to challenge her later, but this first step must be taken alone. She had to choose to come with him, to submit to him. Forcing her, or even prompting her, would be counter-productive.

Still, he had desperately hoped that she would say yes. He had met plenty of supposedly submissive girls, but none had conjured up the same feelings that she had. She was remarkable, particularly for a girl who had never been spanked. He admired her for meeting him, knowing what she did of his preferences. He hoped that he would live up to whatever image she had of him that inspired her to take this leap.

He studied her as she continued to play with her glass. Even in silence, she was saying more than perhaps she realised. Her shoulders sat squarely on top of a spine so straight it rendered the char back useless. Her fingers trembled, but only when he could tell that her mind had wandered away from its main occupation of maintaining her carefully constructed external picture of composure. She knew that composure would later be shattered, but clearly valued its protection for the moment. And above all, she was still here, with him. He had given her plenty of opportunities to back out. He had even booked a separate room for her should she wish to change her mind.

“Please don’t leave me alone,” she suddenly said to break the silence, holding her voice steady with the same tight control she used with her posture.

“What?” he asked, confused. Had he given some indication that he was about to leave? He knew well the importance of patience at this stage, and searched for words to assure her. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. I’d hate to miss our little appointment.” He wanted to reach out, to hold her and comfort her, assure her that it would be all right, but she had carefully folded her hands under the table and out of reach.

“Yes, I know,” she replied, “and thanks. But I meant before. . . it. I know you like to. . .well sometimes. . . leave a girl to think on her own, to get in the proper frame of mind. I don’t think I can handle that. I might lose it. I know I’m not supposed to be the one making the rules, but just this time please stay with me. Next time we can try it, but I don’t want to be alone.” She let the words tumble out, finishing with a slight quaver in her voice that would have been all but undetectable to the casual observer. She reached for her drink afterwards, hiding her blush behind the deep pink of the cocktail.

Again, he struggled to hide his relief and elation, to steady his voice and hands. She truly had committed to this, he realised. “Fine by me,” he told her and reached out for her hand before she could withdraw it, running his thumb over the back of her knuckles, savouring the connection and hoping to never let her go lest she disappear into the night. “Along those lines, would you like to get on with it? You don’t seem particularly attached to that drink,” he said, hoping that her reluctance to imbibe truly was from a desire to remain alert as he had first imagined, rather than merely a delay tactic.

She nodded, and he allowed himself a smile. It was time.

He helped her up, keeping close to steady her as they walked up to their rented room. Her body pressed up close to his, smooth and cool against him with only an occasional waver. He smiled at her willingness to trust him for support. Even in these early stages, it was a good sign. He held her gently, not quite directing her movements but softly guiding her along.

Entering the room in not-quite-comfortable silence, he sat at the foot of the bed and regarded her. It was a difficult decision: invite her to sit close or take her over his lap? Did she need more time to get used to the more intimate setting? Or would she simply use the time to foster fears and panic?

He made his choice, fervently hoping it was the right one. “Are you ready?” he asked.

She stared at him wide-eyed, and he struggled to keep his gaze steady and kind, hiding his own inner turmoil. She had enough to work through in this moment without adding his own hopes and fears into the mix. After an age, she nodded, and he let his relief show in a glowing smile as he guided her over his thighs.

He heard her sharp intake of breath, felt her tense under his caress. This was the time for patience, he reminded himself, savouring the sight of her, shifting slightly until she was beautifully bent and trembling with anticipation- or at least he fervently hoped it was anticipation. He waited for her to calm before lifting her skirt, eliciting a gasp from her. She remained in place, and he murmured a quiet encouragement, not sure if she would even be able to hear or understand. He lifted his hand again, this time delivering the first crisp swat. He left his hand in place, trying to read her like Braille, feeling the lumps and bumps of the first experience, the first brush with this intimate pain flow through her and subside as she relaxed. She made no move to get up.

He smiled. She was his. He continued.

He built the spanking slowly, subtle increases in the strength of the swats, drawing her slowly and gently into deeper levels of pain. With firmer spanks, he carried her through the wriggling and kicking phase, holding her still as he continued, noting that despite her squeals she made no attempt to escape that he couldn’t easily counter. As her cries quieted, he continued the spanking, allowing her endorphins to ease the transition into a submissive state of mind. He felt the tension seep from her body until she gave her weight to him fully, almost melting into his lap.

He helped her up and examined her face for the first time in several minutes. She was still the same girl he had met earlier that evening, somewhat more dishevelled but clearly recognisable. Clearly beautiful. He smiled at her again as he brushed the hair from her face and pulled her closer. Somewhere behind the tears, he caught his first glimpse of who she really was. As she collapsed into his arms, he knew that he would see her like this again.