The New Listing
It was the sort of house that you never seem to come to the end of, and it was full of unexpected places. Marilyn moved to the next room, laying her measuring tape in both directions and enterring the size on her listing form. Being a mid-19th century estate there were many more rooms than normal, and she had to document each of them, She had finished inventorying the kitchen appliances, noting the clever way they had been built in behind false wooden fronts that matched the cupboardry. No expense had been spared, it seemed, making the home modern, yet not violating the classic ambience. She was impressed.
She was especially impressed with the price. If she could swing it she would buy it herself. Jan, the woman who had listed it didn't seem to match the careful planning and execution of the home – she was just in a hurry to get it sold and move on. She presented the necessary paperwork showing that her husband was deceased (in England, of all places). Marilyn expected not only her normal commission – the woman was willing to pay to have all the furniture removed and placed in storage, as well as having any necessary cleaning and inspections done.
The house was quiet – almost too quiet. She had finished with the downstairs - next she would head upstairs and measure the bedrooms – all eight of them – and the multiple bathrooms. As she passed the full length mirror on the wall she turned and checked her appearance. She felt proud of her figure at thirty-six – she turned back and forth. Not that she was vain (well, maybe a little). Her appearance was one of the tools she used to sell houses. That and her friendly, if slightly authoritative personality. She had come a long way in the four years since her divorce. Ten years of marriage had left her very little. When she had discovered that he was an alcoholic and a cheat that was enough. She had moved to the small lakeside town to get away from everything she had been. She had worked her way into real estate sales, and it looked like she would be able to take over the brokerage when Jack retired. She was studying frantically to pass her brokers license. Then, even if he didn't allow her to take over she would be able to take the next step. And afford a place like this. She sighed, and turned to take one last look out the window over the lake. Another example of the care with which the home had been built, it was a modern picture window, but wrapped in old molding and sills so it fit into the great room. It was a beautiful view. She headed up the stairs.
She pressed the old-style pushbutton to light up the long hall. That switch must be 100 years old, she thought. Still it worked perfectly. The first few bedrooms were of average size, furnished with antiques, and beautifully done. They looked like guest rooms – they didn't appear to have been used often. Still, all were immaculate and well laid out. She measured them and dutifully enterred the values. The last two included the master bedroom and, she had been told, a den. She turned to the left and opened the door – she was amazed at the size of the bedroom and the choice of the furnishings. Rather than the antiques furnishing the rest of the house this room was unashamedly modern. A huge bed, matching his and hers chests, sparkling mirrors, large screen TV. electronics... there must have been tens of thousands of dollars of furnishings alone. she stepped through to the master bathroom, where the motif continued. Even – she giggled – a bidet. She turned to the womans low vanity. Centered on it was an old fashioned mirror and hairbrush set. The hairbrush was long, dark wood – the type that had terrorized little boys for generations before hers.
She picked it up and held it in her hand – it was heavy. She'd had only one experience with a hairbrush in her life – her “big sister” during hell week at her sorority had used one on her for infractions real and imagined – it didn't matter. She smiled at the recollection – she had rubbed her behind at night, then between her legs, then gone pleasantly to sleep after several orgasms. She hadn't thought about it in years. She set the hairbrush back down and headed across the hall to the den.
The door refused to open and she had no key for it. She tried to reach across the molding above the door but she was too short, even on tiptoe. Grumbling, she returned to the master bedroom and carried out the chair, then stood on it. Running her hand along the molding she felt the key. She caught it as it fell, then returned the chair. She opened the door and gasped.
It certainly wasn't a den, at least not in the normal meaning of the word. All along one wall were implements for punishment. She recognized a few, from where she wasn't sure- paddles, canes (she thought that's what they were called), several leather straps. Also several with multiple tails – she didn't know what those were called. And the room was furnished in the same type of thing. Across the room from her was a large straight backed chair, a small table next to it containing several more paddles and a hairbrush that was the mate to the one in the bedroom. There was a stool, and a reproduction of an old-fashioned set of stocks - she'd seen the original in a museum on vacation she recalled. Finally, there was a padded sawhorse, only it wasn't rough-built like the sawhorses she'd seen workmen use. It was smooth, oak she thought, well-finished, and the padded leather looked rich.
It looked too tall for her, but she tried leaning over it. She was a little too short to bend all the way over it. She wondered what it would be like... She tried getting on tiptoes and she nearly fit.
“Hmmm... You've been a bad girl” she giggled to herself. She walked over to the opposite wall and took down one of the smaller paddles. She came back and bent over the sawhorse again. She was curious as to how it would feel – she tried swatting herself. It was hard to do - in this position her blazer was a little tight. She stood up and took off her blazer and laid it over the table next to her. She leaned over the sawhorse again and tried swatting herself with the paddle. This time it really did hurt.
“Ow” she thought. "Guess I'm glad that I'm not getting that for real."
She closed her eyes and thought back to the time in college. She wasn't sure why but she felt a sense of arousal. She swatted herself one last time.
“Would you like a little help with that young lady”
The voice was deep and distinctively masculine.
She squealed and tried to ease off the horse.
“Oh no – not yet”
She felt strong hands around her holding her in place, then the paddle was wrested from her hand. She tried to turn and look at her captor, but all she could see was the bottom of his slacks and a pair of very expensive wingtips.
“Let me go.”
She began to have a moment of panic.
“I dont think so”
She felt herself lifted from the horse and carried across the room. He sat in the chair and stood her in front of him. She appraised him. “Yup, qualified buyer” was the first idea that came into her mind. His Armani suit, silk shirt and power tie matched the shoes. He clearly had the money to do what he wanted. Then she realized how silly that train of thought was.
“Supposing you tell me what the hell you're doing in my house first. Then we'll talk about everything else.”
“Your house? I have a client who came in and listed this house for sale...”
He looked impatient.
“For sale. Hmmm... let me guess. Jan. Tall blonde. Forty-ish. Drives a gold Lexus...”
“Needed a quick sale. Had to leave the area...”
“Closing costs dont matter. Send the money to her in Nevada...”
“Yes. That's her. She had the death certificate for her husband.”
He began to look angry.
“Yes. She said he died in England. She was broken up about it and just had to leave.”
“Well I just bet she was. Well, rumors of my demise are greatly exadurated, as they say.”
It took a minute for her to understand.
“So this is all a scam?”
“Looks that way. You see, I am a consulting geologist for several oil companies. I spend a lot of time out on oil drilling rigs here and in England. I also spend a lot of time reporting to management and boards of directors both places. So I'm gone for long periods of time. She was expecting me to be gone for the next month.”
“We had a rig blow out and I dont have to be out there until they fix it. So I have a week off. One she didn't expect”
“This is just an ugly divorce. She was trying to get an additional settlement. I'll have my lawyer visit your office and he'll have the police take care of it.”
She stood there in front of him, not sure what to do.
“OK – so you dont want to sell then? This is a beautiful place...”
His face relaxed in a smile.
“No – not as long as I'm alive.”
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“So shall I pretend that I didn't see what I did?”
His eyebrows raised. She blushed bright red, and now she felt really confused. She looked at him in a different light. He was attractive, very attractive now that you thought about it, and if she was ever going to get a spanking from any body...
He was so attractive that she could want him even if there was no spanking invloved. But there was. Or could be...
“Ummm. I guess you know a lot about this stuff, huh?”
She was trying to give herself time to think, but he wasn't having any.
“I know enough to be able to see a girl who thinks she needs a spanking”
He reached over and pulled her down across his lap. She felt more embarassed than she remembered ever before in her life. His hand lay on the seat of her skirt, and his touch awakened something within her, a desire, arousal. She couldn't help squirming a little on his lap. She felt his hand smoothing her seat, gently, but with a firmness that made her melt.
He swatted her – not particularly hard – more it was a surprise and she cried out not in pain but because she was unprepared. The room had no carpet and the walls were panelled rather than the softer coverings in the other rooms in the house. The sound of the swats from his hand echoed around the room. He didn't really hurt her – she couldn't explain why but the impact of his hand was driving her to heights of arousal she didn't recall before either. She could not hold still on his lap, wriggling back and forth.
“So how's my naughty girl doing”
She could hear the smile in his voice. He continued the spanking, not too hard, just enough. After a while her wriggling turned to thrusting her hips. She began to really want him inside her. He stopped, then she felt her skirt slipping up her thighs.
“No wait. Dont....”
“Well, well, well. If that isn't cute”
She knew he was enjoying the view. Her one surrender to feminine frilliness was her underwear. She loved lacy underclothes, and preferred old fashioned stockings to pantyhose, so her tormentor was looking at skimpy black lacy panties, a matching garter belt, and dark nylon stockings. She had never shared her preferences with anyone, so no one she worked with would ever have guessed. But he knew. Her face, if it was possible, was an even darker shade of red, she knew.
She felt the intimacy of his hand on her bottom. Without the skirt in the way she could feel the toughness of his hand.
Being spanked this way was much more painful – she couldn't keep from crying out, and this time it really smarted. He continued. She couldn't help but feel that he somehow knew how to handle her, how to master her. She definitely felt the swats much more – they were hard enough to make her beg him to stop if he went on much longer. But then he stopped, wthout being asked. Again, somehow he knew, she thought.
She felt him open her legs slightly, then run his finger along the edge of her panties. Down her bottom. Down the inside of her thigh. Down next to her lips...
His touch was unbelievably right, sensitive, gentle... She bucked on his lap as he began to stroke her, moving far more than from the spanking. He continued until her words became incoherent, lost in the pleasure of the moment. She had no control, no knowledge, nothing.
He stood her up, lifted her and carried her across the hall to the bed, softly laying her on it. She watched as he stripped off his shirt, pants, shoes. As his shorts came off she caught her breath – she had only been with a few men, but he was bigger than anyone she had seen. Or heard of, considering the powder room grapevine. Gently he pushed her on her back, then slid her panties off. Opening her legs he gently dropped onto her. As he enterred her, she felt him moving slowly – perhaps he had learned to be tender because of his size. But he quickly filled her - if he were any bigger it would have been painful. She reached up and enfolded him, giving back the pleasure she felt. Their passionate thrusts matched and it was not long before they came, both crying out together as one.
The sun was setting as they rose, having lay together holding and whispering the rest of the afternoon. She fetched her clothes and dressed – he pulled sweats out of the chest and slipped easily into them.
“So how long are you here?” she asked.
“Till Friday. Would you like to come over?”
“Try to keep me away. What happens then?”
“I'll be on the Gulf coast for three weeks, then over to the North Sea”
“Would you like company?”
He looked at her appraisingly.
“You know, in all the five years I was married to Jan she never wanted to go anywhere with me. I never expected... I mean, yes, of course”
The expression on his face warmed her.
“That was her. I'm me. I go where my man is”
It was a little presumptuous, she thought, but he would get used to the idea.
“You do know, the paddle is still here. Waiting”
“Well you know how to use it, dont you?
“Then I'll learn how to take it."
He walked her out to her car, kissed her goodbye. As she backed down the driveway she looked back. He was leaning against one of the porch pillars, a smile on his face. She waved and he waved back. As she headed down the river road towards home she started thinking about the paddle. Yes, it would hurt. It would hurt a lot. Enough to be scary. But the thought flittered away quickly. If things are good they’re not terrifying, are they?
Bookends, run by @caseydamnmorgan is an interesting exercise - given two sentences, write the story between them. Try it sometime... see http://www.caseymorgan.org