Eroticizing Discipline: Dominance, Submission and Exquisite Pleasure. H. Hargrove

      “He’d make me pull them down.”

      “Then what?”

      “He’d make me bend over the bed. Or lay across it.”

      “Bend over? How?”

      “With my hands on the bed.”

      “Did it hurt?”

      “Yes. He spanked me pretty hard. Not brutal…not really abusive. I mean, a lot of kids got spanked back then. Pretty common.”

      “You told me before it didn’t turn you on. Are you sure?”

      “No. I definitely never thought it did. But now that I’ve been thinking back - I mean, it turns me on so much when you do it, even though I’m nervous, and in a way don’t want you to do it. I think there may have been something, some feeling I can’t describe or put my finger on. The memories are vague. My childhood wasn’t good. I couldn’t wait to leave, and I’m sure I’ve suppressed a lot of it. But there may have been something other than my fear, the embarrassment, the sting. Maybe there was some strange, imperceptible attraction. It was about the only attention he ever gave me, and I’m sure that’s a key. He didn’t really seem like a father. He was gone so much. He was a very distant, cold man.”

      I kept rocking gently inside Sheila’s pussy, slowly, cupping her breasts in my hand, caressing her nipples, as we continued to talk. It was silky smooth, almost dreamlike, an incredible turn-on - listening, sharing, fantasizing, while I was connected to her, filling her, seemingly a part of her.

      “Can you try to remember that last time…that he spanked you.”

      “It’s hard to remember which time. I know I came home late a couple of times after a date and got in trouble. There was another time that I wasn’t late, but my Mom came out and threw one of her tantrums. Called me a slut. Screamed and yelled. I was just sitting in the car with a guy in the driveway. Talking. Doing nothing wrong.”

      “Did she punish you after you came in the house? Did she spank you?”

      “I just don’t remember. Sometimes she did. I was so upset. But I do remember coming in late one night and my Dad was home. I came in the door and he was standing there and I knew what was going to happen.”

      “What did happen?”

      “His eyes. They were so dark. And hard. He glared at me. And he already had the belt in his hand.”

      “Go on.”

      “I’ll tell you what I can remember. He told me to go upstairs and then followed me up. He lectured me for a minute or so. He never said much. Then he made me take off my jeans. I had to lie across the bed on my stomach and then he pulled my panties down. He spanked me for a long time. I’m not sure if it was that time…but one time I just lay there for a long time after he finished and left my room.”

      My dick was rock hard. As I increased the intensity of the rocking motion…and the thrusts…Sheila began to moan. I felt her shudder. Usually I could last as long as I wanted to…and I usually wanted to drag out the pleasure. But that night…I exploded quickly. God she turned me on.

      

       I don’t know what to say. You said it all. You write really well. OK, the sex is amazing. Wonderful. You do so many things to me that no one else has done. I love it. And when you make me do things. That’s what I love the most. Promise you’ll always make me do things. Make me do everything.

       I know you want me to talk about the spankings. When you tell me you’re going to spank me it drives me crazy. And when you pull my panties down before you do it, it makes me even crazier, if that’s possible. God it turns me on. I don’t know if it’s linked in some way to the spankings I got at home …those times when I was a teenager. Maybe. But I just don’t know.

      

       Sheila

      

      

       Remembering

      Down to just about one passion that’s working. Can’t see too well…can’t read much. Can’t hear much either… which is a blessing with chattering, blathering nurses. Head still swims like I’m drunk. My juices haven’t flowed full speed since the damned accident. But that shudder and hint of warmth I feel in my loins is comforting. And my memory is still a steel trap. Eyes closed, head back against my pillow. If I’m not interrupted…maybe I can start my afternoon off right.

      After many years the image remains crystal clear. I was sitting in the living room of the large, elegant brownstone on Lyme Street in Boston. Beacon Hill. Prestigious neighborhood. Mr. Johnstone walked in…tall, ramrod straight posture, distinguished, full head of silver hair, perfectly attired in a charcoal gray, double breasted suit and blue tie. He possessed the angular, fine features of a patrician, which he was. I was twenty two, and in these surroundings, in the presence of this man…I was impressed.

      The interview didn’t last long. There were the standard questions in Mr. Johnstone’s impeccable, formal British brogue, about my prior employment and method of managing the cleaning and general upkeep of a residence of this size and quality. My work ethic? Could I accept the fact that I would be rewarded for being efficient and resourceful? And disciplined for errors of judgment, carelessness, and neglect? Whoa! My first clue, but his line of questioning quickly moved elsewhere after I instinctively nodded and murmured “yes”.

      It would be my second job as a housekeeper after becoming disenchanted with secretarial school, and my experience and enthusiasm must have hit the right chord, because he handed me an employment agreement, told me to look it over and sign and bring it to his office if it met my approval.

      The pay was excellent. I would have quarters, a room of my own, and based on the size of the living room and rich furnishings I assumed I would be significantly elevating my standard of living. I would be the only housekeeper and have both responsibility and leeway to make decisions. There was a section of the agreement which dealt with acceptable standards of work, attention to detail, the requirement of obeying orders or directions from both Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone, and treating them with respect and reverence for their position. Position was never clearly defined, but in addition to being the Lord and Lady of this very fine house, they were apparently also a Lord and Lady in some official capacity, as members of the gentry in their native land.

      There was a short, two sentence paragraph stating something like initiative, efficiency and exemplary completion of assigned duties will be rewarded with either cash bonuses and/or compensatory time off. Neglect of duties, failure to meet required standards in all tasks, and any signs of disrespect will result in discipline, which, if warranted, will take the form of a reasonable application of corporal punishment.

      Well…there it was. I had a choice. I looked around, read the agreement again, felt a twinge of fear…the slightest tingle of something else…apprehension, maybe? I wasn’t sure…and signed it.

      When I walked into the study, directly off the living room, to return the signed agreement to Mr. Johnstone, Mrs. Johnstone was standing by his desk. She was also tall, stunningly beautiful for a woman who looked to be in her forties, with a trim figure, perfect, fine, sculpted facial features, and a bun arrangement of thick, blond hair. She nodded and offered a faint, regal smile when Mr. Johnstone introduced me. I was aware of her eyes never leaving me as I accepted the position and handed the agreement to her husband.

      I was told to report the following Monday, with my bags, ready to move in and begin work. I was then shown the door.

      It was at least two weeks, during which time I earned an afternoon and evening off, along with a crisp twenty dollar bill for my exemplary work and attitude, before Mr. Johnstone confronted me with a problem. I don’t remember the exact problem…just the result. I was told to report to his study after I had finished