Any argument?

I AM behaving!

WHO says I am not??

Star Trek Spanking across the Universe...

I am a huge Star Trek fan. I was about 11 years old when television was finally introduced into South Africa, and when we eventually moved away from staring at the test pattern, to watch some actual programmes, Star Trek was amongst the first Science Fiction offerings. I immediately fell in love with Captain Kirk, Mr Spock and Scotty, although I did not have much of a liking for Dr McCoy.

However, can you imagine Mr Spock as a TOP?

Desperately trying to find ways not to explain to the alien with the pointy ears that I suffered a little mishap:

What does it mean, 'exact change'?

I have never understood the female capacity to avoid a direct answer to any question.

You will answer me.

You were saying you would have no trouble explaining it.

You have 8 minutes, 41 seconds.

Not doing a very good job of it:

Would you mind explaining that statement, please?

It appears that you have been keeping important information from me...

Some nervous tension building as all my explanations are ever so kindly blown out of the water:

Fascinating is a word I use for the unexpected. In this case, I should think "interesting" would suffice.

Are you sure, it is not time for a "colourful metaphor"?

I find this scientifically fascinating. Congratulations on a dazzling display of logic.

Okay, trying the "It was not that serious, it was more like a joke" routine...

A joke is a story with a humorous climax. I fail to see the humour in the situation.

Logic and practical information do not seem to apply here.

Insufficient facts always invite danger.

I do not believe you realize the gravity of your situation.

Attack is the best form of defence, so I will now revert to the use of anger and hurt, with some well-placed denials inserted here and there:

I fail to comprehend your indignation. I have simply made the logical deduction that you are a liar.

Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

You are employing a double negative.

To deny the facts would be illogical.

That did not work to well; maybe I should use the love card?

You mean, love as motivation? Hmm. Humans do claim a great deal for that particular emotion.

Not only did you violate the rules, you also fail to understand the principal lesson.

What you want is irrelevant, what you have chosen is at hand.

Conclusion:

It seems that it would be unavoidable that my bottom would rather be red and tender. Note to self: Avoid aliens with pointy ears, and with words such as illogical in their vocabulary, unless you have ample soft cushions lying around.

I do not threaten. I merely state facts.

True. Constant exposure does result in a certain degree of - contamination.

I am sure you will find it a fascinating experience.



(Source)

Mr Spock quotes in Star Trek episodes/movies, definitely out of context, but logically re-arranged.

Dance of Submission

She is a woman of independence, pride shining out of every pore of her soul, haughtiness imprinted in every move that she makes.

He is watching her, smiling slightly when he sees her using her charm, becoming the sensual woman to get her way, to satisfy a whim, and he knows that he will have her. She will become his.   

She sees the man approaching, and as he strides towards her without making a sound, she thinks of a panther stalking his prey. As he stops in front of her and looks down at her, a shiver runs down her back. She lifts her head, meeting his gaze, not flinching, staring into his dark eyes. A slight smile plays around his mouth, as he holds out his hand.

She looks down at his hand, her eyebrows slightly lifting as she asked him, “I think you have the wrong person”.

She could hear the suppressed laughter in the rich baritone of his voice as he answered her, “No, I do not have the wrong person. It is you that I want, and it is you that I will have”

She gives a small laugh of derision, and step to the side to walk past him, but he moved quietly, blocking her way. Her heart starts pounding, but her voice remains cool, “Please move out of the way”.

He took her by the arm, pulling her into his body, and as he moulds her body against his, he whispers in her ear, “You are mine, for now, forever”

She feels the heat of his body against hers, her pulse racing, her body alive, but she puts up her hands, pushing against his chest. She is not to be controlled, or to be held, she is a woman that is free, with no explanations owed to anyone. As he tightens his hold, trapping her against him, she flicks him a look of disdain. She hisses at him, “I am not yours, you will not have me”.

As he feels her trying to pull away from him, he moves his hand over her bottom. He smiles down at her, as she gives him a startled look, before a faint flush colours her face. He cups her bottom possessively, feeling the heat of her bottom against the palm of his hand, and he knows that the redness would have not gone. As he gently squeeze her bottom, he could feel her slightly flinching, before he hears her voice quietly saying: “Yes, I have become yours, and you will always have me”    

  

Late (Spanking Fiction - Part 1)

The walls were cool underneath her palms and splayed fingers. She could see the fine cracks in the paint, a small flick of a different hue in the white where the plaster was not smoothed over properly. Her legs had started aching from being in one position, and she tries to shift her balance slowly from one leg to the other without attracting attention to herself. There was absolute silence in the room, except the tick of the wall clock relentlessly counting down the seconds. She has not been in the corner for more than five minutes, but it is already feeling like a lifetime. He is in the room, somewhere behind her,  and she knows that he is contemplating her punishment, leaving her fully dressed for the moment, trying to get his anger under control.

It was suppose to be a quick coffee after work with some friends, but the sound of conversations, laughter and music playing, seduced her into carefree nonchalance. Time was of no relevance, her cell phone forgotten where it was buried deep in the recesses of her bag. She had thought of a thousand excuses on her way home, her stomach churning with dread, and her legs weak underneath her. Words died on her lips when he jerked the door open, and a glance at his face sent shivers down her spine. His hand closed around her arm, pulling her into the house, his voice barely controlled in its fury. “Three hours! For three hours, I did not know where you were, whether you were in trouble or in an accident. I phoned your work, I tried to get hold of you on your cell phone, but no-one knew where you were!”

He had marched her straight to their bedroom, pushed her into the corner, and placed her hands hard and high against the walls beside her head. She knew from bitter experience, that to move or fidget or even to attempt to talk at that moment would make things worse. Closing her eyes, she counts the seconds, waiting,  when she suddenly feels his hands on her back. Barely managing not to flinch, she swallows nervously as his fingers deftly unzip her skirt. He pushes her skirt over her hips, letting it fall gently to the floor where it pooled around her ankles. “Where were you?” Her breathing became shallow, and she tries to lick her dry lips, whispering, “Coffee...I went for coffee. I am sorry, I should have phoned, I forgot about the time, I am so sorry...”

He runs his hands over the thin lace panties, giving a dry chuckle when he feels the involuntarily clenching of her bottom. She feels goose bumps breaking out all over her body as her muscles contract and releases in fear and anticipation. Heat and moisture spreads between her legs, and she feels her scalp tingling with tiny prickly shivers running down her back. Although she is desperately trying to control her reactions, her bottom pushes slightly against his hand, sensitive, feeling the light friction between lace, skin and the heat of his hand. His hands cup and lightly squeezes her bottom, then pulls down the flimsy lace, slowly, exposing her, with his voice hard next to her ear “Don’t worry sweetie, you are going to be sorry, you are going to be very, very sorry”  

Christmas Canes

He was in an odd and difficult mood from the moment I arrived at his office, and to say that the interaction between us went downhill fast, is putting it mildly. His only words regarding the upcoming punishment were that I was going to determine what it would be, and thereafter he steadfastly refused to engage further in the conversation. No matter how much I tried, he did not budge, only looking at me with that slight smile on his face, patiently waiting. It did not take long before my temper made an appearance, I wanted this session over and done with, I still had some shopping to do for Christmas tree ornaments, and time was ticking away! As anger overtook and destroyed any common sense I might have had, I deliberately strew caution to the wind, rising splendidly to the occasion.   

When he walked back into the room with both canes in his hands, I was already regretting my reactions, desperately trying to think of a way out, yet, with Ms Temper still well in place, I refused to opt for a simple apology. A couple of minutes before I snarled out that he can administer twelve strokes, six with the new and six with the old, sarcastically allocating it as a Christmas gift to him.  As I was reluctantly lowering my panties, feeling them resting below my bottom, I looked at the chair that was waiting. I knew the moment I assumed the familiar position, being bent over it; I will feel him lifting my blouse, feel the air on my bottom, with the inevitable pain soon to follow. I was trying to think of ways to slow time down, to postpone the moment where I have to submit, anything...but nothing came to mind.

When the first stroke came blazing down and across my bottom, I closed my eyes, only thinking, dear gods, what I have done. By the third stroke, all I could think about was the deep burn, the stinging pain that was searing into my bottom, and there was nine still to go. At stroke six, it took every bit of willpower not to reach out and rub my bottom, the pain had become all consuming, every line so far laid on, burning with the brightest of fire. It did appear that some of the gods that I was praying to fervently took some mercy on me, as I had some reprieve when his phone rang, and he left to answer it. While he was gone, I was wondering what he would do when he comes back, and finds me, fully clothed with car keys in hand, refusing the rest. However, I did not move. I stayed in position, bent over the chair, bottom fully exposed and burning, with the coolness of the air only seemingly aggravating the pain, waiting for his return.

At stroke eight, I was openly whimpering, hoping desperately every time when he changed canes, that he will get tired of the new cane. It inflicted a heavier burn than the older cane, the sting lasting longer, and an agony that has become indescribable. Unfortunately, the gods were done with my prayers, and my bottom continued feeling the difference between the canes. With the last two strokes, every bit of my bottom was on fire, and I was too afraid to move, as any slight movement seemed to make the pain more pronounced. As the last stroke fell, my whole body was shuddering but the feeling of relief washed over me, it was finally over...

When I finally managed to move away from the chair, and gingerly pulled my black satin panties over my bottom, I knew I was in for a couple of days of avoiding anything that might resemble a sitting position. I had a final look at the canes, hoping that they will both burst into flames, very much in a similar fashion that my bottom was on fire. It was also there and then that I decided, that no matter how cute or innocent they might look, nothing that even closely resembles a cane would ever have the honour to be hanging from my Christmas tree...ever!

The Purchase (Spanking Fiction)

She mocked him, openly, without any fear or reserve, foolishly believing in the safety that the shop offers. The shop assistant reacted with the same glee, two women bound together in their own peculiar conspiracy as they strive for a victory in the age-old battle of the sexes. With the last giggles escaping over her lips and basking in the glow of her conquest she walked towards the exit doors.

He walked behind her, and in silence his hands circled her, pulling her into his body. He was holding her tight, clasping her arms against her own body, forcing her to stop walking. The last sound of her earlier joy died on her lips as he bent his head down, tightening his arms around her, and in a low voice spoke quietly, for her ears only.

He stood next to her, watching her as she showed him the item of her choice. He shook his head, indicating with a slight gesture that it is not good enough. Her hands were shaking as she put it back on the shelf and reached out for the largest size, feeling the thick smooth wood under her fingers. She removed it from the shelf, holding it up for him to see, and as she glanced at him, he nodded his approval. 

He had stopped her when she reached out for a shopping bag, instructing her that she will be carrying her purchase home, in her hands.  The short walk home was in absolute silence, an earlier attempt to apologize to him being curtly dismissed. On entering the house, he took her by the arm and steered her towards the kitchen.       

With both her hands still holding onto the newly bought item, he bent her over the kitchen table. She felt him lifting her dress, placing it over her back, with his hands quickly moving back, slowly pulling down her silk knickers. She felt the cool air against her naked bottom as she heard him walking around the table. She lifted her eyes as he stopped, and as he held out his hand, she wordlessly handed over her new, large wooden spoon.  

Fugue (Spanking Fiction)

He had her by the hand, leading her down the passage towards the bedroom. She did not look up, focusing on her bare feet, counting when she sees her red toes, the steps towards what was awaiting her. He has not said another word since he so easily dismissed her declaration of hatred with the gentle mocking of her childish outburst.

Her legs felt heavy, her steps slow, as the bedroom entrance came into sight. Her mouth felt dry, and with every ounce of control in her, she focused on her breathing, keeping it even, although her body is screaming for more air. She could feel her skin becoming clammy, her heart beat drumming away, and as much as what she tries to only focus on her feet, she is unable to remove her gaze from the door at the end of the passage. An overwhelming impulse to run clamoured at her, but she is weighed down by her acceptance, her willingness, her need to submit.

As she sees her red toenails inside the bedroom, her first step over the threshold, a tingling starts in the small of her back, which trickles down and over her bottom, in between her thighs. She sees the huge window out looking a garden in full summer bloom, the late sun colouring the room in a soft wash of yellow, and as she finally glance at the bed, she sees the pillows neatly stacked, the altar on which she will offer herself, submit to his will, her altar of redemption. Unable to see anything else except the pillows waiting for her, she feels her nipples become firm, hardened peaks rubbing against her dress. She feels her bottom tingle and ache in response as the mixture of fear and anticipation creates a moist warmth within her. She can barely breathe, but feels alive, aware, her body humming with need.

He had let go of her hand, and in a voice so gentle yet harsh, familiar but different, he directed her towards the bed to assume the position. As she stood in front of the bed, she closed her eyes briefly, aware of her body, aware of him, knowing what is to come, the words that will be said in love etching into her soul, feeling the shame of her sins, the cleansing pain of redemption and forgiveness.  As she positioned herself over the pillows, she felt the vulnerability, the exposure, her raised bottom the offering, and with a small sigh, she embraces that which is her submission, her devotion, and her loyalty to him...

Prelude (Spanking Fiction)

"I hate you!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dark, laden with her resentment, her rebellion against a punishment due. She heard the petulance and defiance in them and cringed. An absolute silence reigned in the room, and as she stared at the mottled brown carpet, she saw her red painted toenails as if for the first time, briefly admiring the contrast in colour. She kept her head down, staring at her feet that were neatly next to each other as his black shoes moved into her view, slowly and evenly. When they stopped, she noticed how it seemed that his feet were blocking hers from escape, in front of hers but spread apart, one on each side.  

He was so close to her that she could feel his body heat, his quiet breathing, and the smell of his aftershave permeating the space between them. Her breathing has become shallow, she wanted to move backwards, move her red painted toenails into safety and far away from his black shoes, but she did not move. He still had not said anything, and in the silence, she heard her heartbeat racing, the pulse in her throat fluttering in response. She noticed that her toes were curled now, as if trying to bury themselves into the carpet as they were trying to hide themselves away from the black shoes guarding them.

She felt his fingers under her chin forcing her head up and as her red painted toe nails could no longer be seen she closed her eyes. She could feel his gaze upon her face and heard his voice quietly saying; "Open your eyes, look at me". She could feel the tiny pricks of tears forming in her eyes, her breathing even further reduced, as the burn in her throat seemed to be constricting her, but she did not open her eyes. Both his hands were cupping her face now, cool against her burning skin, and she resisted the urge to turn her face towards the comfort of his palms. He repeated his instruction, his voice still gentle but with steel edge so cold, that she felt her womb clenching in response. She could feel her toes becoming relaxed, no longer trying to hide in the carpet, resigned to the inevitable, the red toenails defiant, but defeated.

As she opened her eyes, his face loomed over hers. She saw his dark eyes, staring into hers, his face stern and forbidding, and his mouth unyielding. A small sardonic smile started playing around his mouth, and not breaking his stare, he repeated her petulant cry; "You hate me?” She wanted to break free, to confirm her hatred, her lie, from the safety that can only be created by distance, but she knew her eyes had already given him the true answer. She knew that he wanted more than that, more than a negative shake of her head, he wanted her to say it. She also knew that it will be followed by another question, the one where she will  acknowledge that she is deserving of what he has deemed necessary, her submission to what he had outlaid, to what was only said minutes ago, but seemed like hours.

To be continued in "Fugue"