The Bike Garage

I’ve been given an assignment.
 
He’s tasked me with thoughts, teased me with little detail. Three words: the bike garage. Two more words: next time. Think about it, he said.
 

I’ve been thinking. I envision a woodshed with a long bench, leather straps hanging from hooks, and a girl in the corner sniffling her contrition.
 
The bike garage is no woodshed. It smells of motor oil and pent-up heat. It is all man, and my tits feel conspicuously out of place there — like they’re trespassing on his domain of Harleys and grease.
 
There is little space, but enough, in the corner. I don’t remember seeing a bench or leather straps, but I do remember an eye-hook in the ceiling beam, remember wondering about its purpose and thinking that it holds promise.
 
I know where I’ll eventually be standing — under that hook. I know where my hands will eventually be — over my head. If I am allowed clothing, it will be temporary and an easy thing to remove with wire-snips.
 
I can only imagine what will be done.
 

The flogger will flick against my thighs before slapping against my bottom. It will gently trace my ribs, playfully bite my nipples, tickle my stretched abdomen as I clamor for more of the garage’s stifling air.
 
My shocked cries will be swallowed by the heat.
 
I will begin to fall, but find my anchor, pivoting on my toes around the hook, displaying my femininity to the all-male audience of chrome and bolts and he.
 
That is all that I can imagine. That is enough.

Strangers with Candy

There was a knock on my door last night, around 9:00. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but was happy to see him standing there, a wide smile on his face. He held a brown paper bag and slung over his shoulder was his black duffel that I have grown to simultaneously love and dread.
 
He said he brought dessert, indicating the unmarked, paper bag.
 
Of course I let him in and greeted him in my usual way, on my knees, my lips placed reverently against his hand. He asked for a paring knife and said he had to prepare the dessert. By now I suspected what he had in mind. I’d been craving this dessert lately, and haven’t made any secret about it.
 
He told me to go to my room, strip, and wait for him.
 

I did as instructed and left him in the kitchen with the mysterious bag. As I waited with my hips over the pillows, I could hear him running water and whistling. I was there for a long time – 10 minutes or so, feeling exposed and apprehensive. The water would turn off, and I’d shudder in anticipation, only to be met with the sound of more running water and more of the same, happy tune pushed from his unworried lips. The man is meticulous, particularly when he knows that I’m waiting.
 
Finally, he entered the room.
 
He commended me on my positioning even as he began spanking my bottom, gently at first and then quite firmly. He asked if I knew what was for dessert. My shoulders indicated “maybe”. I could not say it out loud. From the bag, he confirmed my guess: peeled ginger, shaped like a crooked finger with a wide base.
 

Photo from Ms. Margaret Davis.

He asked if I was ready.
 
I was not.
 
My heart was racing and I had been enjoying the hand spanking. I said, “Yes, Sir”, anyway. He retrieved the soft restraints from under my bed and tethered my wrists to the head-board. He spread my cheeks and probed with his fingers first, which made me push back, eager for more.
 
Taking the place of his finger, I felt the cool ginger press against me. It was still wet from when he’d washed it. He slowly eased it in. I blinked…nothing. It didn’t burn at all. He wiggled it around while I took deep breaths, expecting to feel the infamous burn.
 
Then his hand, which can be just as painful as a paddle, went to work again, and I found myself involuntarily clenching against the root. It started to burn then. Slowly at first, but the burn gained momentum. By the time he pulled the cane out of his duffel bag, I was writhing against the pillows, wanting the root out but at the same time craving it deeper.
 

Photo from Figging.com.

Clenching is irresistible after each cane stroke. But each time I did, each time I moved at all, the burn was intense. I willed myself to relax around the root, but even then I couldn’t forget that it was there. By the 20th stroke, I was crying but begging him to fuck me.
 
I was desperation defined.
 
By the time he gingerly removed it, it had stopped its intense burn. Finally, we both took what we needed, he from behind and me still restrained over the disheveled pillows.
 

Anonymous

I imagine he would inquire about the difference in flavor between bok choy and cabbage.
 
Knowing the answer — the difference lying in texture, preparation and presentation more than flavor — he’d use the question as an introduction and not as a test. His hand settles decisively on the bok choy. Ah, a risk taker.
 
I study him. He looks to be a man versed in vegetables: lean and fierce, with an artistic air that is less calculated than natural. He is handsome, yes, but not obviously so. Distinguished, certainly. He could lead a conversation about gardening that would leave one’s thighs quaking for the moistness of dirt.
 
I follow him. He lingers at the ginger root, fingers it, and glances at me.
 
No, not so quiet, this man.
 
What if I were to write a hotel name on my deli receipt and slip it in his pocket, pausing to make my presence known? Would he be there, in the lobby? Would I?
 
Leading him through the patterned hallway, acutely aware of his eyes on my hips, we’d stop at a discreet door marked for our indiscretion.
 
The room is anonymous and so are we. I could be anyone, and am. To me, he is a father, a brother, home from a business trip where he discussed the next big thing in environmental activism. His refrigerator is empty, his cat hungry, his bathroom sink clean. I don’t know what I am to him, but he is here.
 
I place my hands on the bed, lock my elbows. My open mouth discovers the flesh of arm and breathes against it, a self-soothing kiss.
 
In a move more carnivorous than expected, he circles me. He is weighing options, calculating again, about to ask a question.
 
What is the difference between pain and pleasure?
 
He’d know the answer lies more in the similarities than the differences — the delivery, the receipt, the moans. He’d know that his belt holds the answers. It is contained within the 38″ of leather; it is also what twitches beneath.
 
He takes that leather in his hands then, unfolds it from his waist, clear in his decision. This is what I want. This is why I bend.
 
With a gentle ferocity, my dress is raised, my panties readjusted, and he begins without preamble.
 
I am dirty. I am reckless. I am the girl who slips invitations into strange men’s pockets.
 
My unasked question hangs in the air, What is the difference between danger and desire?

Blank as the Moon

My own Flash Fiction Friday, inspired by the above photo. This is a total work of fiction.
 
You sleep through my nude perusal of the night.
 
I try to find lingering marks in the dimness but my curves appear blank as the moon. There is no evidence of us there, no shiny, red trinkets from our travels. My thighs are dry but sticky — the only souvenir I have — soon to be washed clear of you.
 
I wonder if there is another room like this, another girl like me, another man like you. Perhaps she slips out of bed, as I’ve done, to stand naked amid the emptiness. Did he make promises like you have? Did she accept them, knowing they were lies, a temporary tenant for her heart?
 
Will she return to bed, as I will, and press herself against his back?

The Demonstration

This is an approximation of a recurring dream I’ve had since I was 20 and beginning to fulfill my spanking desires. Written months ago, I’ve decided to post it.

….

I awaken, disoriented, with my nightgown damp and twisted between my legs.
 
Voices from the kitchen, a low conversation punctuated with thoughtful laughter, drift into the dim bedroom. Who is here?, I wonder, my curiosity free from alarm.
 
Untangling myself from the sheet, I pad out of the bedroom to investigate my midnight guests.
 

 
Sitting around the table, a deck of cards split between them, are three men I don’t recognize and one whom I know well — my boyfriend, Doug, dressed in a white button-down shirt and a loosened tie. Running my hand through my tousled hair, I groggily greet the foursome and become aware of how improperly I am dressed.
 
My nightgown, made of thin cotton, allows the light to cast my thighs in shadows beneath the fabric. Gooseflesh covers my arms and I feel the familiar tightening of my nipples as all eyes flicker to me.
 
Feeling exposed, I turn to fetch my robe or, at the very least, put on panties. But Doug pats his thigh and says, “C’mere, sleepyhead, and meet my friends.”
 
I cross my arms over my puckered nipples and join the table with a shy smile. Introductions made, Doug pulls me onto his lap and briefly nuzzles my neck, inhaling the sleepy lavender scent that clings there.
 
“I was just telling everyone how we make our relationship work,” Doug says to the table. Blushing, I hope he didn’t share all of the inner-workings of our arrangement — specifically that he spanks me whenever and however he chooses.

Fever

I am in the circle of your arms, can feel your heart against my back. My feet rub against each other. Good night, left toes. Good night, right.
 
I drift.
 
An inexplicable fever plagued me through the day, as it has for several months. Even in dreams it follows: a high-speed chase through the woods, kaleidoscopes of color, snippets of conversation on fast-forward, faces I recognize from the grocery store fritter in and out.
 
Little makes sense.

I am high in a tree, bent over a branch, laid bare to anyone who passes beneath.
 
I wriggle deeper into the branches to hide, but it only lifts my skirt higher, displaying more. I close my eyes against the roaring audience below, willing them to disappear. I am dizzy with fear — afraid of heights, afraid of this exposure, afraid of the jeers.
 
More! Now! Faster! Keep up!
 
I have no more. I can’t go faster. I can’t keep up.

I climb up the branches which lead to solid ground. In a clearing now, I am alone.
 

* * *

 
My thighs are slick…with what? Sweat?
 
No, just wet. From me, from my thoughts. Writhing images invade, like flags in the wind, the swish of skin against skin makes my temples pound and my clit throb. A tongue laps between my legs and there is a rushing sound — a madness — followed by waves moving over me as I attempt to swim atop and ride them.
 

* * *

 
We are in a theatre now, full of faceless people. I bend; you reach for me. I feel your cool hand against my damp and burning flesh. You comment, You’re like a river. I could swim in you.

Your hand feels strange, unknown, forked leather against my cheeks as you snap a rhythm against me, like a heart beating. Lub dub, lub dub.
 
Everyone fades.
 

* * *

 
I am in a room, my room, on my stomach with nothing beneath me — floating, finally cool. I’m weightless, slowly swooning. Near the ceiling, your fingers clasp my thighs. You tighten your belt around my waist and reel me in and over your knee.
 
Bright light and then dark. I hiccup a release and go limp in your arms, home again.
 

The Encounter

Sometimes I receive email forwards that need to be shared. This is just such a forward, written by Rich Albeen.

He grasped me firmly, but gently, just above my elbow and guided me into a room, his room. Then he quietly shut the door and we were alone.
 
He approached me soundlessly, from behind, and spoke in a low, reassuring voice, close to my ear.
 
“Just relax…”

I. Heart. Bondage.

When I wrote the post about D ripping my clothes off of me, I had some inspiration.
 
I want to share that inspiration with you, but must first give you warning. At The Pink Report, I try to leave as much to the imagination as possible. I pick photos designed to tempt and arouse the mind, and leave the rest to you. You usually won’t find the “money shots” here; I don’t typically enjoy the ins-and-outs of the more traditional porn. And although D and I dabble in the rougher stuff (I like it), I don’t love watching it.
 
However, months ago he sent me this video and I keep circling back to its hiding spot on my desktop. The full length version, from Sex and Submission, is nearly 40 minutes and quickly escalates to hardcore where this clip leaves us. If you like it, head over to their site and explore the offerings.
 
It is hot. It is graphic. You’ve been warned.
 

 
I’m not a fan of elaborate jerry-rigging or rope burn, but simple bondage by the man I trust, to have no choice but to follow his lead, is an incredible turn on for me.
 
And…ahem…did you see the way he ripped her dress and then used it to gag her? I might even break my no gag rule for that display of creativity.
 
I’m a simple girl, D: tie me up, flog me, rip my dress and buy me a sausage dinner. That’s what I call a date.

Fantasy: rewritten

We imagine perfection. The scripts are fluid. A calculated silence fills all of the right places. Each move and response combine in a well choreographed performance art piece to be replayed on a loop by our imaginations.
 
Things fit, just so, and are stamped indelibly on our conscious as an example of what could be. These are the things we most often write about, the fantasies that whet our appetite while wetting our gussets.
 

 
And then there are those other times — when maneuvers are, at best, sloppy. Pants stick to hips on the downward slide. A forehead is banged on an end table. We lose our script partway through and erupt into giggles, each trying to remember the next line.
 
These moments are written as memories. These are the moments that we do not want to lose, the moments when our fantasies converge to give us our realities filled with delectable and unique imperfection.
 
In my fantasies, there wasn’t an ‘us’. There were characters with prescribed personalities and body shapes, one-dimensional beings. In my fantasies, the intent wasn’t to connect, wasn’t to understand one another, but to fulfill my desires at the most base physical level.

Although fantasies still serve their purposes, I can no longer do without ‘us’. There must be a ‘you’ and a ‘me’ written into the script.
 
When it is time to turn out the lights and be quiet, my recent memories blanket me as my fingers travel where they are tempted to go.
 
My fantasies are rewritten every night that I call you mine.

Reality-tale

Once upon a time there was a woman. She was a remarkable, strong, fierce woman — but she didn’t know it.
 
She saw herself as ordinary. She laughed at low-brow humor, was afraid of spiders, and occasionally slammed her car door. She was of average looks and average intelligence and average wealth.
 
But deep within this pragmatic, capable woman brewed a most unusual desire.
 

When she closed her eyes at night, her fingers drifted and she imagined a man who cared enough to cast a light into all of her hidden corners. He’d find her specialness that she couldn’t see, hold her accountable to her goals, and — this was the part that made her fingers work most diligently — discipline her with routine spankings.
 
She didn’t think a man like that existed. And if he did, what did she, with her own lackluster existence, have to offer?

One day, tired of the monotony of her usual schedule and her offering of vanilla-flavored dates, she stepped into the shadowy woods outside her door. She crept cautiously, poised for any danger, prepared to turn back at the first sign of trouble.
 
With only a few frights along the way, she came to a clearing filled with sparkling, magical candlelight that cast her ordinary features in an extraordinary glow. A breeze lifted her nondescript hair, billowing it around her shoulders in a sea of golden tranquility.

An unknown man emerged slowly from the woods. As he approached from under the blanket of trees, his plain face began to glisten like diamonds in the light, his hair transformed into a crown. Where once there was resignation, she was suddenly filled with a reverence so great that she fell to her knees and wept with discovery and recognition.
 
She felt his bronzed hand tilt her chin so they were each looking at each other in this magnificent light. After a few moments, he pulled her toward a bench where she stood between his spread thighs. Wordlessly, she laid across his knee. With purpose and growing certainty he began a slow and lulling rhythm against her bottom.
 
He increased tempo and her ordinary world shook as it relinquished the final hold on its unremarkable axis. She felt herself spiraling outward on a fantastic voyage through space and time, only to land again between the trees, and over his knee.

Once upon a knee there perched a woman. She was a fierce, strong, remarkable woman emboldened enough to show a kindred spirit her darkest corners and wise enough to realize the importance of her dreams.
 
She was the least ordinary of women. And he was the least ordinary of men.
 
Together they walked out of the clearing, through the dark forest and into her waiting home — where she sat tenderly ever after.