Charlotte's Wonderful Day

Charlotte stood frozen at her front door, keys half-raised to the lock, staring at the small slip of paper tucked into crack between the door and the jamb. The official city seal, and the words “ordinance” and “proper maintenance of property” jumped out at her. Cringing, she glanced over her shoulder, at the foot-tall weeds that poked through the rocks of her front yard. So she had gotten behind on her yard work…who cared? But obviously somebody did, enough to call the city and report her. Stupid busybody neighbors.

“Fuck,” she muttered, dropping her key to the lock and letting herself in. As she pushed the door open with her hip, trying not to drop the carefully balanced bags in her arms, the notice from the city fell, landing gently on the patio. Frowning at it, she slammed the door shut with her foot, leaving the small slip of paper outside.

Throwing the deadbolt, she turned and stomped into the house. As she crossed the living room to the kitchen, to put away the bags of groceries, her foot caught on something—I should have put those shoes away! her mind shrieked at her, helplessly—and she tripped. Without thinking, she dropped the groceries, intent only on saving her face from an impact with the hard tile floor—and the bags fell, hitting the floor with a sickening crunch. Something red began to leak onto the pale tile.

“Fuck!” she yelled at the ceiling, banging her fists onto the floor in her frustration. The sting of that blow quickly spread through her hands, causing tears to fill her eyes. This is too stupid, I am not going to cry, she told herself. I am not going to cry! But by the time she had fumbled her cell phone out of her pocket, the tears were already coursing down her face, so badly that she could barely see what she was doing as she punched out the text message: Come over now, I need you!!!

By the time Dave let himself in, half an hour later, Charlotte’s tears had stopped, though they still gleamed wetly on her cheeks. She was still sitting on the floor, head flung back against the wall; the ends of her long hair brushed the tile beneath her.

“Hey, Char, what’s up?” Dave asked, crossing the room and kneeling at her side. As he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her close to him, Charlotte pressed her face against his chest, inhaling the scent of him through his shirt; her voice, when she answered, was muffled even to her own ears.

“I’ve just had the worst day ever,” she mumbled, trying to stop the tears from coming again. It was stupid to cry about this, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. It had just been such a terrible day! The story came spilling from her lips. “First my alarm didn’t go off, so I woke up late, and I couldn’t find a parking spot at work, which made me later, and then my bottle of lotion opened in my purse and got all over everything—now even my credit cards are rose scented!—and I dropped a whole pile of files at work, and all the papers got mixed up, and—“

Dave cut her off. “I think I get the picture,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “And that” he gestured at the dropped grocery bags “was the last straw?”

Charlotte nodded, sniffling.

“Well, I have an idea,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet as well. “I’ll clean up in here. You go get comfy, take a quick shower, whatever, to calm down. And when you’re done, I’ll give you a massage. Sound good?”

Charlotte nodded again, a small grin breaking out on her face. She loved a good massage, as Dave well knew. Brushing a quick kiss across his cheek, she disappeared into the back of the house.

Once alone, Dave glanced at the mess on the floor, shaking his head. Charlotte was great, he loved her, but sometimes she got just a little…overwrought. She really needed to calm down. If she really wants something to cry about, I should give it to her.

Suddenly an idea surged through him. Something to cry about…He had been thinking about this for months, but he had never brought it up with her, thinking for sure that she would think he was some kind of pervert. But now, in her current state…it might just be the perfect time.
He flew through the clean up, and then poked his head into the steamy bathroom. Charlotte’s perfect figure was only slightly obscured by the misty shower curtain. “Honey, I’m gonna run out for a bit,” he called over the noise of the shower. When she protested, he explained, “I just want to get some nice massage oil for you, and maybe a pint of ice cream.” He grinned when she agreed enthusiastically. Then he was out the door and into his car in a flash, speeding for the store.

By the time Dave returned, Charlotte had finished her shower. She was laying on the futon in the living room, wrapped in a thin robe and watching TV when he strode in the door, a brown paper bag in his hands. “Is that my ice cream?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him.

“And some other surprises,” he replied with a wink. “Pull out the futon and lay down and I’ll be
right back.” He walked into the kitchen. “And take off the robe!” he tossed over his shoulder.

Smiling with anticipation, Charlotte did as she was told, stretching out on her stomach. A massage, followed by ice cream…maybe this wasn’t going to be such a bad day after all. She closed her eyes and waited.

A few minutes later he reentered the living room, accompanied by the sound of rustling cloth as he disrobed. The futon creaked as he climbed onto it, moving until he was sitting astride her, the soft scratchiness of his legs tickling at her hips and thighs.

“Just keep your eyes closed and relax,” he murmured as he pushed her hair over her shoulder. There was a small click as he opened a bottle, and then he was rubbing his warm, oil-slick hands over her back.

The massage lasted what seemed hours. Charlotte fell into a half-doze, where the only really things in the world were the feel of Dave’s hands on her skin and the weight of him pressing down against her ass and thighs. She felt him shift again, and then he whispered, “Put your hands up over your head.” Intoxicated with the pleasure coursing through her body, she did so. He leaned forward, running his hands over her arms, working the muscles of her forearms.

His voice broke the spell of silence that surrounded her. “Do you trust me?” he murmured against her neck, his breath tickling the fine hairs there.

“What are you talking about?” she answered, voice muffled by the futon.

“Just answer the question. I know a way to make you feel much better, but you have to trust me.” He leaned forward so that she could catch a glimpse of his face from the corner of her eye. A mix of emotions played over his face, anticipation and longing and something akin to fear.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, still trying to measure the look on his face. At her reply, his expression brightened, through the anticipation did not disappear.

“Wonderful,” he breathed against her ear. “Just relax, and I promise everything will be fine.”

“Okay,” she replied, unsure of what he intended to do.

But nothing strange happened; he just went back to massaging her again, his strong fingers working at the muscles of her arms. With a mental shrug, Charlotte closed her eyes and allowed herself to fall back into the half-doze that she always occupied during an especially good massage. There was nothing in the world except for the feel of his fingers kneading her muscles, working up and down her arms, grasping her forearms…

A new sensation, then, of something squeezing her wrists, something besides a human hand. She opened her eyes, lifted her head the little bit she could with her arms stretched out before her, to find her wrists encased in black cloth.

“What the hell is this?” she demanded, trying to sit up. But the cloth around her wrists—the restraints, she belated realized—was looped around the futon frame, holding her down. Aside from that, Dave still sat on her ass. She twisted to glare at him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Shh,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “You said you trust me, remember? Just lay still.”

A shot of adrenaline ran through her, as she realized that she could not get away from him. She was tied, and with his superior weight holding her down, she was truly trapped. “What are you going to do?” she demanded through clenched teeth, trepidation heavy in her voice.

“Just this,” he said, staring straight into her eyes. And he spanked her.

At first all she was aware of was the sound, a harsh crack that seemed to echo in the room long after the sound itself had died away. Then, in the heavy silence that followed, she felt heat, great waves of it, starting in her ass and spreading through her whole body. As the unwelcome heat tingled through her face and fingertips, she felt tears—of shock and shame—pricking at her eyes.

“What are you doing?” she whispered harshly, her voice muffled by the futon.

“Teaching you a lesson,” he replied, the strange tightness still in his voice. “You need to learn to calm down.” And he smacked her again. And again.

She fought. She kicked and wriggled and thrashed, but it was no good. With her arms tied and him on top of her, she was not going anywhere until he wanted her to. And apparently he did not want her to go anywhere until her ass felt as if it had been roasted.

Each blow landed in a different spot, spreading the warm glow of pain through her ass and thighs. He would bring his hand down on one asscheck, and then on the opposite thigh, and then on the crease just above. Several blows landed on her inner thighs; those stung the worst, sending hot jolts of pain up her legs into her body. He even—and this was as humiliating as it was painful—pushed apart her asschecks to deliver several sharp, stinging blows there. By the time his hand fell for the last time, leaving one more handprint on her burning flesh, tears were streaming down her face. She was sure she would never be able to sit again.

“Are you done?” she whispered thickly, voice clogged with tears.

His chest hair tickled her back as he leaned closer. “Not even close, love,” he murmured in her ears. “But you are doing wonderfully, and I promise that it’s not all going to be terrible.”

“How is this not terrible?” she demanded, trying to find the energy for anger. But it seemed as if all her anger had been used up in fighting him. A heavy lethargy lay on her like a blanket, seeming to weigh down her mind. The only part of her that felt truly awake was her ass, which still quivered with pain.

“Is this terrible?” he murmured, stroking her inner thigh gently, before slowly moving his touch upward.

“No,” she was forced to admit, squirming ever so slightly as he touched her sensitive flesh.

“Or this?” His finger pushed into her, just enough to tantalize. Despite herself, despite the pain and humiliation he had caused her, she found herself pushing back against him, trying to get more of him inside of her. He laughed. “I guess not.”

Despite her body’s urge to keep pushing against his hand, she pulled away as best she could, trying to become cold. “Get off of me,” she demanded, trying to sound exasperated, knowing that it came out more like a plea. “You’ve had your fun, now leave me alone.”

“Not quite yet,” he said softly, running his fingernails over her reddened flesh. His touch sent shivers—of pain, and of something she belated recognized as desire—through her, making her body clench.

While she was still panting from the unexpected flare that his touch caused, she heard a rustling off the side of the futon, as if he were digging in a bag. Soon, something smooth and cool was laid against her burning flesh. It sat there for a long moment, while she tried to figure out what it was.

When he lifted it and began to run it over her skin, thin bristles raking at her bruised and aching flesh, she realized that it was a hairbrush. And he intended to spank her with it. Tears sprang to her eyes, but, for some reason she could not fathom, she bit her lip to keep her protest inside.
The bristles scraped her sore ass as he lightly dragged the brush up and down, exciting already over-stimulated nerves to the breaking point. With each pass, he pushed the brush down a little harder, until she felt as if the bristles were stabbing her, as if the welts that covered her ass were being inflicted all over again. Finally, it became too much for her; she let out a whimper.

It was as if that was what he had been waiting for. Before the sound had fully left her lips, he had lifted the brush and brought it down with a crack on her ass. A yelp escaped her as the tears began to roll down her cheeks once more.

The sound seemed to excite him. He spanked her again and again, each time harder than the last, the smooth wooden back of the brush leaving an oval of burning heat on her ass. She hissed with the pain. It was so different from the blows of his hand, more painful, more solid-seeming. His hand had at least had some mercy. The length of stout wood had none.

Before she could start sobbing at the pain that filled her, he withdrew the brush from her body. Rough fingers pushed her legs apart, and then she felt something hard and smooth—the handle of the brush, she thought—pushing against her. To her utter surprise, she was very wet, and the handle slipped inside of her easily. A new ache—one that had nothing to do with pain—joined the old one.

“I think someone likes pain,” he whispered against her hair as he worked the brush in and out of her slowly. She responded with a moan, thrusting back against the rigid invader. And then, in an instant, it was gone, pulled from her body. She didn’t have time to be disappointed before he smacked her again, swift and painful, right where her thighs joined her ass, right over her aching wetness.

The heat of the blow spread through her lower body to join with the tingling between her legs. To her surprise, she found herself lifting her hips, pushing her ass towards him, as if waiting for the next blow to fall. In the moment of silence, she heard him give a small grunt of pleased surprise; then his hand fell across her thigh again, sending another wave of stinging heat through her. Shamelessly, she lifted her hips to meet his hand.

The spanking continued, hard stinging blows that brought tears to her eyes, and yet she did not shy away from them; instead, she rose to meet them, welcoming the biting warmth that filled her. While he spanked her with one hand, the other slipped between her thighs to touch and tease her. Gently, at first, and then more forcefully, he rubbed his fingers against her clit, occasionally allowing them to slip inside just long enough to tantalize. Eagerly, she rocked against his hand, slowly and then with a mounting urgency. And still the spanking continued.

She came with a shudder, moaning and gasping her pleasure into the cushion beneath her. Though she was obviously spent, he did not stop touching her, though he did stop the spanking; instead, his efforts seemed to intensify, as if he were determined to bring her to climax again. Vaguely, through the haze of orgasm, she could feel his hands fumbling at her bound wrists. And then she was free.

He did not allow her time to consider this. Grabbing her about the waist, he rolled and tumbled them both until he lay on his back on the futon and she straddled him. He lifted her hips, plunging himself into her still-quivering wetness. A jolt of pleasure shot through her, reigniting the fire that had so recently been quenched. She began to rock her hips against him.

With a low growl of pleasure, he put his hands on her hips to guide her, squeezing the sore, reddened skin of her ass between his strong fingers. Pain flared through her again, especially when he began to rake his nails over her flesh once more. But with the pain came more intense pleasure, waves of it, not just between her legs like normal, but spreading through her whole body.

When he spanked her again, she cried out with the sheer intensity of it, of the wonderful pain washing over her. Clutching his shoulders with desperate hands, with her legs glued to his sides, she fucked him as hard as she had ever fucked anyone in her life. Within moments, she came again, the powerful orgasm shuddering through her body while he pinched and slapped her. Moments later, he joined her in climax, grunting as he came beneath her.

There was little to say after that. Charlotte rolled off of Dave, to curl up next to him, her head pillowed on his chest. He draped one arm around her, rubbing her shoulder with a gentle hand. Now that she knew the harsh strength that that gentleness masked, she shivered at his touch.

“So was that truly terrible?” he asked quietly, mouth against her hair.

She considered. True, her ass felt huge and red and she probably would not be able to sit for days. Still, the mix of pleasure and pain that had washed through her body had been intoxicating, sensual. “Not terrible at all,” she murmured against his chest, raising her face towards his for a kiss. “In fact,” she said against his lips, a slight smile on her face, “this has been a wonderful day.”