Many weeks I find myself following the Englishman’s lead in a dance. Sometimes his cues are subtle, like the gentle tug of my panties, letting me know to lift my hips. Other times they are more direct, like when his cane rides up my knees asking my legs to straighten up. There are days when lessons are taught, one where no amount of begging is heard, tears ignored. Last week I witnessed a grand performance- me an admiring spectator, fascinated by a Sir performing his magic.
The morning started with a note: “My instructions today are simple ... wear a dress or skirt ... make sure you have some lotion for your bottom - you will need it.” Act One: hypnotism. I immediately set my coffee down and rifled through my closet. It has been so cold, and yet I was challenged to wear something with built in air conditioning. He has been spoiled by the temperate weather and has found great pleasure in sliding his hand up my thigh underneath the hem of my skirt, granting him easy access to the bottom he loves to hold. Helplessly, I fulfill his request, weak to the power of his suggestion.
He is on the edge of the couch while I am on my knees and over his. Naked, I crane my neck behind his body, looking into the large mirror that frames the scene. I am the bisected woman- act two, a classic. My bottom is being spanked red, swimming in absolute pleasure on its own, my mind participating only in observation. Trying to force logic, my eyes admire the sight of my bottom being spanked, feeling loved. But there seems to be a disconnect as there is absolutely no communication between the two halves of my body. I watch in awe as I bear witness to two parts of the same person experiencing completely different sensations, his body refracting my image. But any logic held is lost as the audience falls silent in the third act, the grand finale, as his fingers perform a disappearing act.
And yes, there was an encore. Happy Holidays, indeed.