Margie and Me

Author's Note: Well, Gentle Reader, this is a shameless appeal for help. Like any writer, I suppose I qualify as a "writer" although "author" would arrogate myself to the ranks of Stephen King or Robert Heinlein or Earnest Hemmingway and I certainly do NOT do that. I actually think of myself as a storyteller. And, as you can see, my mind often wanders into digressions.

Back to the point.

I need your help. It seems that every morning I wake, early at my age, and there's a new storyline just needing to come out. Unfortunately, since there are only so many hours in the day and I DO have other things I do, my Thursdays with a group of friends pretending I can play and sing the blues or my ongoing gig writing papers for lazy college students, some storylines get lost. I recently returned to Margie, for example, one of my favorites but she got knocked out of my mind by other projects. And some of my stories, see "Mommy's Special Snack" for example, while fascinating to me are WAY on the fringe and may not appeal to enough to continue.

So here's my ask. If you like a story or hate a story, if you want me to continue with the line or kill it, please take a few seconds and leave a comment. I read EVERY one of them, believe me.

Chapter Ten

The rest of the weekend was a honeymoon. We made love when we woke up, the sort of lovemaking that leaves you exhausted, panting, sweating, and hoping you can get it up quickly for a second round. I loved watching the way those big pillow boobs rose and fell and sort of swayed gently as she caught her breath.

"Feed me, lazy wench," I said, slapping her belly, making her squeal with laughter.

"Come on, boarder," she said, rolling out of bed. The way she was leaking down her thighs was sexy and her big ass looked absolutely terrific as she headed out the door toward the kitchen. Then she giggled, turned back, and went into the bathroom.

"Nature calls pretty damn loud," she said over her shoulder.

So I followed her. I kissed her as she sat and peed and then wiped her when she was done. Her eyes were big but she was smiling at this intimate act.

We washed our hands, side by side, brushed our teeth, side by side, and giggled a lot.

"Now," I said, slapping her ass hard enough to leave a distinct red handprint, "FEED ME!"

She giggled and ran, cute little mincing steps, out the door and down the hall.

I followed at a more leisurely pace, watching her ass jiggle along.

I watched as she started coffee going in her big glass coffee pot, I think

Pyrex

is the name for that material, and then started making breakfast. Margie is a big woman but here she was in her element and turned the mundane task of making breakfast into an almost delicate ballet of carefully choreographed movements. In due course, I was sipping excellent coffee and just watching her work.

The breakfast she prepared was excellent. I feasted on an omelet, English Muffin, Bacon, and potatoes cut into little cubes and fried. It was excellent. And we ate in a comfortable, companionable, silence.

"What?" I asked.

She had finished, pushed her plate away, and now she had her chin propped in her hand and was looking, well, staring, at me.

She said nothing, just watched as I chased the last few cubes of potato and the final bite of omelet around the plate.

"What?" I asked again as I finished chewing and followed the last bite with a drink of orange juice.

"Did you mean it?" she asked.

I laughed and said, "Give me more to work with. I said a lot of things last night."

She smiled, a pleasant smile reaching her eyes.

"Do you really want my milk?" she asked and as she finished that question her eyes dipped to the table. I realized she was embarrassed.

I reached across the table and touched her hand, not holding it, just a light touch with my fingertips.

I waited until her eyes met mine.

"Yes," I said simply.

"Oh, God," she said, her voice very husky with the two syllables.

"What?" it was my turn to ask.

"David," she started and then stopped and took a sip of coffee, obviously using the time to organize her thoughts.

"David," she said, "I breastfed both of my sons."

She paused for another sip.

"And the thing is," I watched as she struggled to hold my eyes, a blush spreading across her face, "I loved it too much. It was almost a sexual experience for me."

I could no more have stopped the grin that spread across my face than I might have, as Creedence Clearwater Revival was asking musically on the radio, "stopped the rain."

She smiled back.

"Is that a 'yes,' then?" I asked.

"I think it might be addictive," she said in reply.

"I can't think of a better addiction," I said, "Maybe it will get me off of cigarettes."

She laughed then, a big belly laugh.

"DEAL!" she said, "I'll go to the doctor and spin him a yarn about a niece who needs a wetnurse or something, and you'll give up those nasty things in return for these," she finished with a flourish, lifting her breasts and letting this fall with a loud, heavy, smack sound, to the table.

"DONE!" I said, spitting into my palm and reaching across the table.

Her eyes got big but she spit into her palm and took my hand.

"Maybe," I said, looking down and trying to sound like I might have when I was eight and trying to wheedle a special treat from Mom, "we should practice."

She laughed and said, "Nuh-uh. Not until we get this mess cleaned up."

I stood fast enough that I pushed the chair back and laughed when it tipped over, clattering.

"Come on, lazy," I said, grabbing her hand.

She was giggling as she stood.

I washed while she dried and put dishes and utensils away. After all, she knew where everything went.

I yelped when she snapped me with the wet dish towel. She was giggling as she dropped the towel and ran away, jiggling prettily.

It was a good snap and when I reached down I could feel the little spot welt she left.

"That's going to cost you," I called to her giggling, retreating ass.

I followed, moving slowly, stalking her theatrically as she glanced over her shoulder and giggled.

I won't deny it, I was looking forward to this.

Another lesson from Kimiko, my Japanese live-in girlfriend for almost three years, was that for a woman to be truly claimed she must submit to a spanking. And I don't mean just some spicy foreplay. She taught me that if she didn't cry, and it didn't hurt, it wasn't truly a spanking.

And I very much wanted to claim my not-so-little Margie. Mom used to call her "My Little Margie" and when I asked she told me there was a TV show on back when television was just black and white and there were only three stations in Denver, by that name.

Anyway, as I stalked my not-so-little Margie slowly down the hall as she giggled and squealed and ran in those little mincing steps of a girl fake-running, I was planning just how I was going to do it.

"You had better be on your belly, looking very fetching when I catch you," I called after her. She was giggling and shrieked a little.

I turned and went back to the kitchen.

I had planned on making her first spanking a traditional, over-the-knee event but since we were heading into the bedroom, and it seemed like the appropriate time for her to lose her spanking virginity, I decided a tool was appropriate.

I slowly turned the tool carousel she kept on the counter, a place for her various kitchen tools. There were tongs and carving forks, brushes, thermometers, serving spoons and ladles, and, in one section, of particular interest to me, a selection of something she called "spurtles."

Her "spurtles," and as I ran my fingertips over them I smiled at the word, remembering how I had asked what they were and she explained, were, basically, spatulas and spoons crafted from a very heavy, very close-grained wood. I'm pretty sure they are teak. They are really beautiful things, if you are at all into woodworking. The figure of the grain was very straight with clear annular line divisions. They were a dark golden brown. Over the years, use and regular applications of cooking oil when they were cleaned, left the surfaces almost glassy smooth.

There were a half dozen different sizes and shapes.

The one I selected was about a foot long. The first four inches were narrow, a handle, very smooth with all edges nicely rounded to be easy on the hand as it was used to mix or stir or lift. The remainder widened out until it was about three inches across, and had a slight curve. I suppose it was designed to fit into the shape of a mixing bowl while heavy dough or batter was mixed. I was pretty sure, as I rubbed it gently, that it would also fit the roundness of Margie's plus-size ass.

I took my time, wiping a couple of drops of cooking oil into it with a paper towel.

I thought the wait, the anticipation, would be good for her.

"Now," I said softly as I walked down the hall, my voice loud enough to be heard but held in a low register as if I was talking to myself, "Where IS that naughty girl?"

I heard her giggle.

Damn.

She was truly beautiful as she posed on the bed.

I could picture the way she had carefully arranged her pose. The sheet was draped across her ass, covering her

gluteal sulcus

but leaving most of the roundness exposed. Her back was arched and I realized she had a pillow under her hips. Her breasts were crushed under her, squeezing out so that dramatic expanses of sideboob showed. Her arms were crossed under her cheek and she was smiling over her shoulder at me.

I crawled up on the bed so I was on my knees beside her.

As I very gently caressed the roundness of her ass with my palm, fascinated at how well my slightly cupped palm fit, I said, "I'm going to spank you now."

"I know, David," she said. Her eyes were unfocused now although still looking in my direction and she was smiling.

"You understand," I said, my hand moving, caressing, "that it won't be just some spicy foreplay. It will hurt and you will cry."

"I understand, Baby," she said in that soft, almost distracted, voice.

And it hit me.

"Si used to spank you, didn't he," I said.

"Yes," she said, still dreamy.

"And you liked it?" I asked, not sure which answer I wanted to hear.

She rolled up onto her side then, propping her head under her palm, meeting my eyes.

"It's not that I 'liked' it, Honey," she said, "but it, well, it

got

to me."

She smiled and moved her hips in that odd, boneless way she had, and the womanscent of her excitement proved beyond any question how talking about this was getting to her.

"How did it

get

to you?" I asked.

"David," she said, using my name to emphasize how serious she was, "I hated and feared the pain. Hell, I hated that I allowed it to be done. I'm a pretty big girl and I could have fought back, you know? But on some level, you know, way down where our ancestors were living in trees or maybe even before that, the pure surrender, the knowledge that I was allowing this to happen, got to me. I can't explain it beyond saying that when he was doing it," and she stopped, sat up, and kissed me.

"For that matter," she went on, after breaking the kiss, "when I'm here, knowing what you are going to do I feel, well," and she paused, her eyes moving up and right as she thought, "I feel more feminine. I feel perfectly female."

She stopped, giggling, and asked, "Am I making any sense."

"Actually, yes," I said, my hand continuing to caress where I would soon be hurting her, "It's a woman's way of showing that she means it when she gives herself."

She frowned a bit, thinking, and then smiled.

"That's a good way of putting it," she said.

Then she laid her cheek back on her crossed arms and closed her eyes.

"I am yours," she said, "I give myself to you, utterly, completely. I hold nothing back."

She took a deep breath, almost a sigh, arched her back a little, offering her big ass, and said, so softly it was barely audible, "Claim me."

"Oh," I said, "I'm going to claim you all right. I'm going to teach you the

saltare doloris

and the

canticum doloris

."

"The what?" she asked.

I chuckled and said, "Latin for the Dance of Pain and the Song of Pain. I'm still surprised I didn't find those terms in a Google search, so I made them up."

She looked at me then, cute as a button with her cheek on her crossed forearms and her mouth pulled down and to the side, in the look only a woman can pull off.

"It kind of scares me," she said, "how much you're enjoying this."

I bent and kissed her cheek, very gently, my lips barely brushing her skin. I nipped her earlobe gently and whispered, my voice barely audible, "Do you want me to stop?"

She took a long deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, "No, Baby."

She smiled up at me.

"No, Baby," she repeated, "Make me dance and sing."

I began then, my left hand lightly tickling her back, drawing goosebumps as I did, while my right started using the spurtle. I started with light strokes, barely more than just touches, each stroke making a soft "whack" sound, the wooden spurtle giving it a slightly different tone than a hand striking would have.

I took my time, of course. This was a sexual event. Later, when the spanking was punishment, the rhythm and pattern would be different. But this was sexual and, more to the point, her virgin spanking.

whack

The first stroke was to her left cheek, right at the roundest part, right where she sat.

"One," I said.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

Four Mississippi.

Five Mississippi.

whack

The second stroke was to her right cheek, the roundest part again, right where she sat.

"Two," I said.

Each stroke landed in precisely the same spot as I switched from right to left buttcheek, and each stroke was slightly harder than the last.

At twenty-four, when she started the beautiful

saltare doloris

, her back moving in a sinuous motion, her hips rocking, her knees moving almost as if she was walking in place, I changed the rhythm slightly. I wanted to watch the dance and give her time to recover, to experience, and, yes, on some level, to enjoy.

"Twenty-four," I said.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

Four Mississippi.

Five Mississippi.

Six Mississippi.

Seven Mississippi.

Eight Mississippi.

Nine Mississippi.

Ten Mississippi.

"Twenty-five," I said.

Besides the pain, her excitement, her arousal, was palpable. The pheromone-laden womanscent of sexual desire was almost thick in the air. The way her hips rocked as she danced showed what she wanted more than any words could.

She showed amazing self-control as she held off her singing until I said, "Sixty-seven."

Her scream, as she buried her face in the pillow was loud even through the silencing effect of the soft cushion into which she screamed.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

Four Mississippi.

Five Mississippi.

Six Mississippi.

Seven Mississippi.

Eight Mississippi.

Nine Mississippi.

Ten Mississippi.

Eleven Mississippi.

Twelve Mississippi.

Thirteen Mississippi.

Fourteen Mississippi.

Fifteen Mississippi.

Sixteen Mississippi.

Seventeen Mississippi.

Eighteen Mississippi.

Nineteen Mississippi.

Twenty Mississippi.

"Sixty-eight," I said.

She came at eighty-four.

It was like nothing I ever imagined a woman could do.

Her back arched and her scream was so loud it left my ears ringing. Her body porpoised, gyrating so wildly the bed bounced and actually moved.

And her love honey, thick and white, the scent of desire filling the air like smoke from a greenwood fire, sprayed down her thighs leaving a thick, long river from the fork of her legs all of the way to the foot of the bed where it dribbled over the edge.

Her fingers hooked into claws and scrabbled at the sheets.

Her head whipped back and forth slinging snot and drool across the room.

And the song, that beautiful

canticum doloris

rang in the room.

I watched the dance and listened to the song as my fingers kept lightly tickling.

Finally, as if a switch was thrown or the strings operating her had been cut she collapsed, face down on the pillow, her only movement a slight, jerky breathing as she continued to whimper.

I laid beside her then, my hand very soft on her back, caressing now rather than controlling or tickling.

"Say it, Margie," I said, my voice low and gentle.

"I love you," she said, "I am yours. I give myself to you. I hold nothing back."

I kissed her then, a very soft kiss on the cheek, and said, "Rest now, Margie, sleep."

Her eyes were closed already.

"What about you?" she asked.

"When you wake," I said, my lips brushing her ear, "we'll make love and talk and enjoy each other."

She breathed a deep sigh.

"I think I'd like that," she said.

The next sounds I heard were her soft snores.