Beyond imagination

She could have walked straight past his table, although she recognised him clearly from the photograph that he’d e-mailed.

But she sat down beside him.

A soft drink would have been fine. But a glass of cold, crisp wine felt right.

She might have offered shy, monosyllabic answers to his friendly comments. But she talked openly, frankly.

She could have offered up half-truths, ducking and diving through the conversation. Yet she felt calm, relaxed, strangely confident.

She might have invented a boyfriend, lurking in the shadows. But tonight was a night where she would start single, free.

She might have dodged his whispered question as to whether she had ever really been spanked; pretended it had floated away in the din of the bar. But she didn’t: and no, she hadn’t.

She didn’t need to go back after excusing herself to ‘visit the bathroom’. (Had he realised she’d merely gone to make her safe call?) Yet she glanced at him across the lobby, smiled, and walked back to his side.

She could have declined the invitation to dinner. But why not keep exploring? And his choice of restaurant demonstrated such impeccable taste!

The bottled water was well-chilled. Yet more wine would be nice, “Thank you.”

She could have pretended that she was perfect. But her list of flaws, her insecurities, her lack of self-discipline came rushing out.

She might have glanced at her watch, blaming an early meeting the following morning. But she was having fun; this was where she wanted to be. With whom she wanted it to happen.

She could have taken the cab herself; pecked him on the cheek, thanked him for a lovely evening, headed off alone across the city promising to call him. But she smiled, let him clamber across the back seat, then climbed in.

She could have accepted the offer of another drink in the hotel’s cocktail bar. But that wasn’t why she’d come.

The lift door opened on the seventh floor: she could always have stayed in. Yet she followed him out, willingly.

His cardkey slotted into the door; the green light flashed: she could have turned, fled. Yet she followed him in, willingly.

She could have gone to him, sought a hug. But his eyes had other plans.

“Take of your clothes.” She might have disobeyed the order, startlingly plain, startlingly clear, startlingly *now*.

Yet she merely delayed: “But the curtains are open, sir.”

“Then you may go and close them.” To her shock: “Once you have undressed.”

Yet she obeyed, once her garments had abandoned her for a pile on the floor.

She might have pretended to herself that the gentleman in the hotel room on the opposite side of the street had not seen her. But she’d caught the stranger’s eye as she drew the curtains.

She could have covered herself with her hands when she turned back around, protecting herself from his steady stare. But she returned his gaze, defiantly folding her hands behind her back.

She might have protested when she heard him reel off a list of the reasons why she needed to be punished, why she needed discipline. Yet he was playing back her own words, her own confessions from dinner. Unarguable.

She might have felt shocked by his, “So I shall start by spanking you.” Yet that was why she was here. Wasn’t it? (‘Start’? She didn’t ask). Even if the phrase sent a shiver down her spine.

She could still have gathered her clothes, could have walked past him when he told her to “Bend over my lap.” But she didn’t. And as she positioned herself, she felt strangely comfortable, strangely at home.

She might have wriggled, trying to escape the firm grip of the arm that had fallen across her back, as his hand made its first gentle, rubbing contact with her bare flesh. But she shuddered, with pleasure. And hoped he hadn’t noticed.

And the spanks, when they came, might not have hurt quite so much as they did in the stories and the mails and the blogs. But they did, more intensely than she had ever imagined.

She could have asked him to stop. But it felt good: knowing, at long, long last.

She might have been surprised, when he lifted her up and told her to bend over the back of the chair. But she knew what was to come, even before she heard the swish.

She might have begged for a lower count, when he informed her that she was now to be caned, and that he would adhere to the traditional six strokes. Yet traditions are sometimes meant to be upheld.

She might have felt calm, as she waited for the first blow to stripe her already-burning behind. But this wasn’t his hand: this was the cane.

And she’d read all about the cane. Yet nothing had prepared her for its scorching intensity.

She might have hoped that he would get it over with, speed up the next stroke. But she was still struggling to come to terms with the first.

She could have been misled, the agony of the first stroke merely resulting from it being her very first. But the second hurt still more. As did the third, fourth, fifth, his calm voice soothing even as the rattan seared.

She might have forgotten that in every story, the final stroke is the hardest. But through the haze of the excruciating, exhilarating pain, she remembered all too clearly. But nothing had prepared her for quite how hard it could be.

And she could have fled, when he told her to stand.

But she pressed herself against him, tight.

She might have continued the pretence of bravery.

But she moistened his shirt with her tears.

She could have dressed.

But she let him lead her, naked to the bed.

She might have curled up into a tight, defensive ball.

But she stretched out along him.

She could have averted her face from his kiss.

But it was too late for that, and she craved his touch.

Could have brushed away his fingers.

But it was too late for that too, and she craved his touch still more.

Could have smiled to herself as she pressed against him.

Which she did, no longer a girl merely imagining.