Monday, May 29, 2017

Spanked at the beach

Overcast sky, almost brooding in nature
Dust covered trail winding up the mountain pass
Lines of tiny flowers, white, purple, yellow, orange
dotting the hillside.

We are on the new man and new woman program
partnered in healthy eating, hiking
losing those extra pounds brought on by school, travel, stress.

The conversation is light
while our long sleeves feel heavy 
as the sun pokes through the blanket of clouds

The trail goes on, mile after mile,
until we reach the peak and can see out over the sea.
The trek down is quick, 
bee colonies swarming around overgrown bushes
encouraging us to move faster toward the end.

A tunnel, the path turning from dry dust to wet sand,
exits onto a brightly sun drenched beach
with waves rising tall and crashing in foamy sheets of
blues, greens and grays.

I kick off my shoes and Eric grabs my wrist.

"No Amy," he says, like I am a naive child. "The waves are too strong.
We'll go when the tide gets lower."

I pull away, laughing and tease him for being such a worry wart.

"I'm just going to get my toes wet," I say, backing into the ice cold water
and beaming at him as the sand beneath my toes sinks underfoot.

Suddenly, I am consumed by a large powerful blast of wet salty water
and I'm spinning in the ocean, pulled farther out to sea.

Once again, Eric grabs my wrist, his tennis shoes and socks now drenched
as he drags me back to shore.  Matted sandy ponytail, I shake my head and
sputter, choking to expel the sea in my lungs and seaweed tangled throughout my hair.

I am hugged, my face is clasped in Eric's hands and he kisses wet salty lips.
I know there was a moment he was afraid;
afraid of a life of having to jump in and rescue me,
afraid even more of losing me.

We walked back to the car and took off everything that allowed us to remain decent.
Bare feet on the pedals, Eric pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to our cabin.
The original plan, lunch on the rooftop, abandoned for a hot bubble bath and dry clothes.

As we turned onto the highway, Eric's whimsical smile faded and his stern authoritative tone took command.

"Over my lap, Amy Lynn," he ordered.

Face buried in the fabric of his running shorts, I endured the sting of Eric's hand 
slapping hard against wet spandex. There were no breaks between his swats.  No
warm up or gentle caresses. My ass, one cheek, poised at the perfect angle for a
truly memorable punishment, took it all.

When he finished, I sat back in my seat, that warm tingling burn on the right side reminding me
to listen when my husband tells me to wait.

I stare out the window, stripes on the road, tiny flowering bushes lining streets, a hillside creeping with vines and big yellow blossoms.  

The glass is wet, splattered with drops from the sea, spraying the window as my spanking ensued. 

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Spanked at the bar

We know the bar owner.

He's young and hip and has a million sexy girls at his place trying to wiggle their way in rather than wait in line, pay the cover or miss the opportunity to be part of his guest list.

We're older than most of the crowd and they eye us, hand in hand, making our way beyond the velvet place holders, straight to the bouncer with his clipboard and ID checker.
We are in and the place is jumping.
Lights, music, a DJ in a giant birdcage controlling the beat and mood of a packed dance floor.

Eric shakes hands and I hug the bar owner, receive a kiss on each cheek.

"She's beautiful," he says to my husband, who nods and mouths, "I know."

I dance.  I dance like there is no tomorrow.
Young men reach out, touch my shoulders, hair and body.  They pull me away from Eric, beg for my attention and call me "baby".

I dance and dance.
I spin and twirl.
I laugh and make my way around the men and back to Eric.

There is one, bold beyond reason, who won't take no for an answer.
I swing to his right and he grabs my left.
My arms reach high as I turn in his hands, a ballerina stuck on a little girls jewelry box.
Eric leans back against a pillar and watches the overzealous stud, toy with his wife.
I glow in the attention of two suitors, one real and one imagined.
The beat quickens and our feet and hands move in time to the rhythm.
Sweat runs down my back and I glisten under a mirrored ball.
The song ends and Eric grabs the back of my hair, pulling my ear to his lips.

"He's too young for you pretty girl," he snarls and I catch his eye, knowing full well he is honored that another man wants what he has.

We stay until well past midnight and last call comes and goes.
The wayward drunks wobble out to the streets and the bar owner offers us a round on him.
Eric is tired but I want to stay.

"Whatever you like, love."

We chat about how we all met, years ago, and laugh about the memories we share.
The bar owner cleans glasses, closes bottles and wipes down sticky counters.
He goes to the ice maker and taking a large flat wooden spoon, cracks through large pieces that melted and molded, refreezing into a sheet of tiny squares bound together inside the machine.

"May I?" Eric asks, reaching out for the spoon.

The bar owner hands over the spoon, curiosity splashed across his brow. He watches as Eric gently touches the tip to my chin and draws an invisible line to the other side of the bar where I sit. I understand, swallow hard and lean across the counter, my hips resting where my hands had just been.

Fresh night air comes in through a partially open window and brushes across the skin of my cheeks when Eric raises my skirt and bares my bottom. I'm sure the DJ can see.

Twelve hard swats have me clutching the bar, my face and ass matching, a bright shade of crimson in front of our friend.

Skirt down and spoon resting on the counter, Eric leads me to the dance floor and nods in the direction of the bird cage. The DJ plays Thinking Outloud and I twirl and spin once again, this time in the arms of the man I love.

Still flushed, we bid our host farewell and head back to the hotel. Chilled mist from the ocean waves cool flaming red cheeks, spanked at the bar.

Amy

You are that girl

The long weekend,
memories of graduation:
the pride on Eric's face,
my children,
coworkers, 
friends.

"You are that girl," he says.

He knows the want, the desire, the goal.
He knows the struggle, the battles, the suffering.

"You are that girl."

This pretty pony marches across the stage, 
exuding confidence, intelligence and class,
making years of work look effortless.

"You are that girl."

I'm leaving for the beach,
this time to celebrate rather than run.
Next week we will make the symbolic trek
to check off the box
to finalize the goal
and talk about the future.

"You are that girl."

Tell me what you want,
tell me what you need,
tell me where we go from here.

You tell me, Eric.
I am that girl,
and you,
are that guy.

Amy

Monday, May 15, 2017

Graduation Day

It took a whole lot of this...




to get here...



but I made it.

Related image

Eric!


Image result for penguin hero

You are my hero.


Image result for penguin love


Amy