I’d have thought it a dream if not for the bruises.
She was the first to befriend me, and I still know not why. She was striking, beautiful and perfect in both appearance and demeanour. I was merely nervous and shy, though less so when talking with her, calmed by her welcoming smile, bewitched by her ability to portray confidence and submission in equal measure. And such beautiful submission! Though she spoke in the same light tones as were used throughout the evening, something in her expression revealed that this was something she felt very deeply.
I had thought I’d lost my chance for his friendship. His piercing blue gaze emanated competence and authority, but also had rendered me into a stuttering fool as I stammered my introduction. I attempted conversation, but soon surrendered to silence and awkwardness. When we parted to mingle, I thought I’d seen the last of him.
I had not known them to be a couple, though the depth of their affection was obvious when they played together. “Played”- the word seems ill-suited for the display of intimacy they allowed me to witness, squirm and caress, pout and glare, and, through it all, a deep and knowing love. They were beautiful, fitting in a way that precluded any sort of jealousy. All I could feel was happiness at what they had found together, and gratitude at the peek they had shown of what joy this sort of union could foster.
“Would you like to be spanked?” he asks me.
I say something silly, the question unexpected. I have not even the presence of mind to thank him for the offer, to graciously, eagerly accept. It matters not; I am turned over the nearest table. The hard high edge digs into me as I struggle to find a stable stance and yet present myself properly for the gift he offers. Again, he does not mind, stroking my bottom to settle me.
He begins to spank, swats soft and slow, building almost imperceptibly until the burn makes me squirm. His hands feel wonderful, soothing whether spanking or caressing. Too many hands, I slowly realise. I turn and she is at my shoulder, a sinful smile as she pauses to show me the light paddle her own bottom had received earlier.
She wields it expertly, producing a sting not at all unpleasant. I yearn for more even after it becomes difficult to take, and I realise some strokes are too severe for the light paddle. I feel the rubbery grip of a heavier implement as they rub it against my skin. Rarely can I tell which implement is used, or who wields it.
They part my thighs with quick taps that threaten worse if I chose not to comply. I feel the paddle gently rest lightly between my legs, stroking in a place where I’d never yet been touched during a spanking. I had forgotten to tell them that I didn’t enjoy this sort of thing, but just as well; I realise then that it would have been a lie. I quiver at the sensation, alien, but not unwanted.
I move to the music: that which I hear, that which is being played upon my skin, and that which is being knitted more deeply in muscle and bruise. I begin to truly relax, slipping into their care.
2 thoughts on “Dancing with Angels”
A lovely poetic piece.