Suus vapulus puga.

Dean is a trim, eagerly kinky, early40s bisexual mystic with a penchant for good coffee, corsets, and trance drumming. Her sensual breasts boast nipples that easily come to attention, her flat tummy barely tells of her children, her kisses are hungry and devouring, and she has the cutest pert little ass. We've been casual acquaintances for years, friends in the same spiritual community (such as it is), and after she made The Pass at me, we began dating late last month.

Dean reminds me of the statues and frescoes featuring the fine women of ancient Rome. And, yes, this ancient portrait of an Egyptian noblewoman during its Roman historical period really does look like her.

Maybe it's because, like myself, she has some experience doing ritual work that sometimes elicits an ominous glamour from oneself. It's partially because of her spirit, partially because of her taste in jewellery, but a lot of it is because of her hair. Dean's short hair is almost afro-like, with tight and dark-auburn curls in what would be called a "pigeon hole" fashion thousands of years ago. She would, to my eye, lk completely at home wearing a sheer stola with gold necklaces and lapis earrings, lounging comfortably amid the sound of lyres during the orgy, wine at hand, figs and olives served by naked Egyptian slaves.

Or, perhaps even better, waiting in the sacred brothel for one proud and broad-shouldered senator in particular to come by, offer his coin to the Goddess, and take her at his casual leisure.

Or siezed by the cohort as spoils of war, and dragged to the conquering general's tent as his battle-weary guard stood drunken sentry with knowing smiles on their scarred, muddy, clean-shaven faces.

She was ravenous when we enjoyed the dilled salmon that I had prepared for our first dinner together, but twice as ravenous when we were necking on the futon. Her open-mouthed kisses on my neck and shoulders, her caresses down my back were a welcome treat. How long had she kept an eye on me? The first hints of the cleft of her ass inched its way toward my fingertips as she writhed in my arms, my hand enjoying the small of her back. I learned quickly that Dean was eager to do a lot of catching up in her world, she celebrating her divorce from a restrictive and problematic man.

How could I refuse a friend in need?

She very matter-of-factly draped herself across my lap when I tugged her from the back waistband of her black spandex pants. I already knew that Dean was into spanking, but this almost seemed too casual, and soon I discovered that my Topwork was definitely cut out for me.

She settled silently, comfortably, across my knees. Enjoying the sight of her teeny butt, I began with a series of light to moderate swats that I started to enjoy just fine, but seemed ho-hum to this so-called 'beginner.' Hrm. A few swats harder, said I to myself, should change that. Nuthin.

Now, I can enjoy giving an over-the-knee attitude adjustment just fine without being altogether concerned if my pet is relaxed and quiet. But this was one of our first dates, and I'd be damned if I'd let my badass self watch this little vixen get a smacking without so much as a fucking peep. Like, puh-leeze.

So it was with humourously annoyed determination that I reached under Miss Utterly Silent's waist to lower those pants. Firm, perky, petite assflesh was my visual reward, and now my hand began raining down for true. The parlour echoed with the lovely sound of skin to skin, smack upon smack as I delivered not my most brutal punishment, but certainly something I thought worth taking note of.

Dean's fine derriere was reddening nicely... but still not a damned sound from out of her.

Well, fuck this, I sez to myself, and stood up, laying her across the length of the futon as I reached for a hardcover book from the case nearby. No kink newbie was going to be that quiet on me, goddammit, and so I raised those four hundred hardbound pages well above my shoulder and brought it swiftly down with a loud, dull, satisfying crrummp!

"AH!" this little witch finally cried. And so I continued, crummmp after crummmp until she was wiggling satisfactorily. I stopped suddenly and opened the book.

"Part of me didn't want free," I read aloud. "Part of me wanted to sink into the golden glow of her, and be lost." I closed the book and used it again and again to swat her ass before stopping once more.

"I traced my tongue along the edge of his belly button, bit softly into the skin on either side, let my mouth work lower until I could go no farther without bumping into him, straight and firm, and perfect, pressed against his stomach. I slid my mouth over the velvet tip of him as I dropped my body to my knees."

Again I closed the book with a thud and used it once more to redden Dean's wayward ass and thighs. Yet now I was inspired.

"Hold that thought," I said with a laugh and strode to the toybox in my bedroom. I returned with my favourite leather slapper, which had not seen use since the previous winter. Dean had re-hoisted her pants and was sitting with a faint Mona Lisa smile when I reached for her ankles, tugged her feet upward and her knees at her shoulders, holding her legs high while she slouched downward on the cushion.

Holding her in position with my left, my right hand cocked the slapper far behind my back before I delivered the first of several very audible swats to Dean's rear upper thighs. Oh, she wiggled and she whimpered and she cried out now alright, and my wide-eyed grin must have been as comical as it was sadistic. Swat. Swat! Swatswat! SWAT!

SWAT!SWAT!SWAT!SWAT!

"Aw, the poor baby... what's the matter? Does it sting?"

SWAT!SWAT!SWAT!SWAT!



Dean writhed and cried out, reaching out to catch the slapper as it showered torment to her covered legs and failing miserably. My ears echoed with the sound of leather on spandex and flesh, and when I finally stopped, I felt perfectly satisfied. I stood back with a smirk on my face as she whimpered and pet her sore wee Roman lady's puga.

And the book? Laurel K. Hamilton's Seduced By Moonlight. Somewhat appropriate, no?



(*Latin: "Her beaten ass.")