Pendragon
26-01-2015, 05:52 PM
Mind The Gap
Most of this was scribbled down on the train home, it was so vivid, I wanted to capture as much as I could:
Her invitation was as unexpected as it was irresistible, and I found myself lunching in Sarastro’s in Covent Garden. Let me tell you; the food isn’t brilliant but it’s a flamboyant place, part opera, part make believe, and the perfect prologue for what was to unfold. Emma - ‘named after the novel, not the Spice Girl’ – had been a University student who helped organise seminars during the summer of 2010. Softly spoken but blessed with self-confidence, she was not one for the spotlight; yet her calm, persuasive manner meant she could deal with the most challenging of people. In a theatre company she would be a producer rather than an actor. A self-starter with the world at her feet; now 24, she had spent a year in media production and was about to move to Los Angeles.
‘Why there?’ I asked.
‘London’s great for learning, but L.A. is for networking,’ she said ‘a year over there is worth four here. It’s a sort of gap year.’
We talked amiably about subjects I knew little about; I loved listening to her enthusiasm and when the bill finally arrived, she invited me to her flat for coffee, ‘If you can forgive the mess.’
Forgiveness assured, we travelled to Camden.
Her living room was a large, high ceilinged space in a big old Victorian terraced house with creaking floorboards and bare white walls. On one side stood a huge bookcase that almost reached the ceiling. Before it stood a kitchen stool, the type with foldaway steps, surrounded by boxes half-filled with books.
‘They’re going to my parents next week.’
We sat either end of a bright blue vinyl sofa covered with autographs from well-wishers and University friends. Above us was a large sash window, hidden behind a cream blind that cast the room in soft afternoon light. Around the floor were crumpled clothes, scattered correspondence, toiletries, photo frames and ornaments - the personal everyday stuff of someone with little spare time. It was an intimacy I never thought I would see.
We chatted about ‘old’ times; about the photo shoots we attended and the trade fair I had taken her to.
‘Must have been embarrassing for you,’ she giggled ‘people thought I was your ‘bit of stuff’,’ it was typical of her confidence that she showed little concern for herself but always for others, ‘yet, you never once tried anything.’
I’m not claiming any particular virtue here, but it’s true we were business-like. ‘Well, I was too old to be your lover and too young to be a dirty old man.’ I said, trying to make light of her compliment. It was the first time she’d spoken like this; surrounded by her belongings, I felt a tad embarrassed - I was seeing a different, more intimate side of Emma.
She propped her chin on the heel of her hand, mouth hidden behind fingers as if in deliberation. Her skirt had ridden slightly and her knees were pointed towards me; I kept my eyes on anything but there, but the harder I tried, the more embarrassed I became.
Perhaps she sensed my discomfort and even a little amused by it: ‘Give me a minute,’ she said, then rose and left the room.
Emma returned and I’m certain she had folded her skirt about the waistband, shortening by an inch or two. I tried not to stare, but my neck hairs rose like a curled up hedgehog.
I distracted myself by expressing good wishes for her future, sadness at her departure and concern about her wellbeing. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ I said lamely, like a mother hen. It was a casual remark, but at that moment and on that sofa, it arrived like an invitation on a silver plate. I almost cringed as it hung there between us, ready to be discarded or opened.
‘You could always…..’ she began, her eyes dropping from mine, ‘spank.’
This was something I hadn’t bargained for. I could have simultaneously dropped to the floor and traversed the ceiling. I needed time to think; was she serious? She’s joking right? How to respond? I couldn’t just reach out and grab her. Somehow, I managed to pull myself together. ‘OK,’ I blurted, ‘then go and stand in the corner.’
To my astonishment she skipped across the room, side-stepping the clutter, eager to see what was to come.
I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing, this charming girl placing herself close against the wall, but it gave me confidence. ‘Hands on your head as well.’ I ventured, which she did, bless her, with a theatrical flourish. I rose unsteadily and grabbed the kitchen stool, negotiating a new place for it in the centre of the room. I sat catching my breath; she remained quite still, making no effort to turn around.
I called her over and she approached and stood beside me, face half hidden behind long dark hair, her legs just brushing against mine. This was the moment, I thought, there was no going back now; ‘Over my knee,’ I ordered.
Without hesitation she leaned forward, hands pressing on my thigh and tilted herself over. The height of the stool meant she could only just lay on her tummy leaving both feet planted on the floor, so I took her hips and hoisted her over, it had the delicious effect of bending and raising her bottom, her panties peeping out in a red ‘V’ beneath her skirt.
She reached out to the floor, but the gap was too great; instead her arms hung and fell limp. I gripped her waist, evoking the helplessness of being over a parent’s knee.
Emma lowered her head and peered under the stool at her toes, now just barely touching the floor. I took the hint and eased her slightly forward, lifting her until she was entirely draped over my knee. It was a move she welcomed, for she gave a satisfied sigh.
As I raised her skirt, I imagined her biting her lip, her habit when in deep concentration. Having revealed her panties, I smoothed the fabric until it was taut as a drum, my palm cupping the mounds of her bottom. She remained quite still, content to surrender control and be positioned however I chose. I left my palm on her raised bottom, inviting her to explore its warmth and texture. I felt her weakening beneath my touch, her body melting over my knees. She felt so very light against the firmness of my thighs, her young heart pounding with anticipation.
Then came a strange thought: my trousers were soft brushed cloth; I wondered if her naked thighs noticed that. I moved slightly, rubbing against her, another almost imperceptible gasp came from the floor below.
I stopped, her breathing slowed and she lowered her head once more. In that long unresisting moment, seconds felt like minutes. I felt I should say something; should I admonish? But what about? Would I risk offense? I had no idea, so I said something bland. ‘You see the floor in front of you?’
‘Yes, but never this close before, reminds me of….’ Her voice trailed into a hint.
Then, inspiration; her bottom was directed toward the door, so I asked another neutral question ‘If someone was listening at the door, who would it be?’ I imagined her furrowed brow as she thought about that.
‘My kid brother’, she whispered.
Whether this was fantasy or an awakening memory, I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t pry, for this was her moment as much as it was mine. ‘Then you’ll want him to know what is happening to you.’
‘Oh yessss.’ She wriggled contentedly.
‘Then straighten your arms.’ She complied immediately, as if to spring dive into a pool. ‘Let’s make sure he knows.’
And so her spanking began, I raised my hand and brought it firmly but not ungently down on her bottom. The suddenness of the sound startled us both.
‘Ow!’ She cried out like a Hollywood starlet, but it carried with it permission to continue. My confidence grew as her spanking progressed. All that could be heard now was the regular drum of my palm across her upturned bottom and her response. Had he been listening at the door, her brother would have had no doubt at all that his older sister was being spanked.
Throughout all this she kept her fingers directed to the floor; making no attempt to grab either my leg or the stool, remaining obedient and helpless, squirming just occasionally beneath my firm grip.
I kept the spanking formal, and made no attempt at intimate touching. By keeping this space between us, we could fill it with our respective imaginations, though I suspect we both felt this to be a domestic correction.
As I continued, she reached further and further over my knee, gasping with each slap. I felt no resistance just growing pleasure at being spanked by someone she trusted.
I was in my stride now, spanking her as rhythmically as a pendulum, until her bottom glowed bright pink. Then I stopped and gently stroked her. She sighed audibly; how strange that I had never even kissed her cheek, and here I was caressing her bottom. In the ensuing quiet the overwhelming sense was of contentment and peace.
When I released her, she rose and without a word, returned to the corner and pressed her nose against the wall, hands clasped upon her head. The sound of the spanking had felt so evocative I decided to add one more. I approached and unclipped my leather belt, sliding it slowly through the loops of my trousers with a deliberate ‘thhrriiiip’. I folded it in half and snapped it a few times like an angry father. She stiffened at the sound, then I draped it over her shoulder – ‘You know this will be waiting for you when you return to England’ I warned.
‘Oh my god, yessss.’ She replied.
For five minutes she remained with my belt balanced over her shoulder. Not a word was spoken. She was so very alluring, but I made no attempt to touch; this was no invitation to intimacy, rather a moment of introspection. Perhaps Emma was reliving a real event or enjoying a fantasy fulfilled, I don’t know. When she finally turned round she smiled and gave me a peck on the cheek. It was enough, enough for both of us.
So I left Emma - named after the novel, not the Spice Girl – and walked in a daze to the Underground. I stood on the platform feeling light headed, pressed by people going about their daily lives unaware of this remarkable girl, balanced so deliciously over my knees, helpless, unable even to reach the floor.
I boarded the train as the PA made an announcement familiar to all Londoners, ‘Mind the Gap’ - I couldn’t help but smile.
Cheers!
Pendragon
Most of this was scribbled down on the train home, it was so vivid, I wanted to capture as much as I could:
Her invitation was as unexpected as it was irresistible, and I found myself lunching in Sarastro’s in Covent Garden. Let me tell you; the food isn’t brilliant but it’s a flamboyant place, part opera, part make believe, and the perfect prologue for what was to unfold. Emma - ‘named after the novel, not the Spice Girl’ – had been a University student who helped organise seminars during the summer of 2010. Softly spoken but blessed with self-confidence, she was not one for the spotlight; yet her calm, persuasive manner meant she could deal with the most challenging of people. In a theatre company she would be a producer rather than an actor. A self-starter with the world at her feet; now 24, she had spent a year in media production and was about to move to Los Angeles.
‘Why there?’ I asked.
‘London’s great for learning, but L.A. is for networking,’ she said ‘a year over there is worth four here. It’s a sort of gap year.’
We talked amiably about subjects I knew little about; I loved listening to her enthusiasm and when the bill finally arrived, she invited me to her flat for coffee, ‘If you can forgive the mess.’
Forgiveness assured, we travelled to Camden.
Her living room was a large, high ceilinged space in a big old Victorian terraced house with creaking floorboards and bare white walls. On one side stood a huge bookcase that almost reached the ceiling. Before it stood a kitchen stool, the type with foldaway steps, surrounded by boxes half-filled with books.
‘They’re going to my parents next week.’
We sat either end of a bright blue vinyl sofa covered with autographs from well-wishers and University friends. Above us was a large sash window, hidden behind a cream blind that cast the room in soft afternoon light. Around the floor were crumpled clothes, scattered correspondence, toiletries, photo frames and ornaments - the personal everyday stuff of someone with little spare time. It was an intimacy I never thought I would see.
We chatted about ‘old’ times; about the photo shoots we attended and the trade fair I had taken her to.
‘Must have been embarrassing for you,’ she giggled ‘people thought I was your ‘bit of stuff’,’ it was typical of her confidence that she showed little concern for herself but always for others, ‘yet, you never once tried anything.’
I’m not claiming any particular virtue here, but it’s true we were business-like. ‘Well, I was too old to be your lover and too young to be a dirty old man.’ I said, trying to make light of her compliment. It was the first time she’d spoken like this; surrounded by her belongings, I felt a tad embarrassed - I was seeing a different, more intimate side of Emma.
She propped her chin on the heel of her hand, mouth hidden behind fingers as if in deliberation. Her skirt had ridden slightly and her knees were pointed towards me; I kept my eyes on anything but there, but the harder I tried, the more embarrassed I became.
Perhaps she sensed my discomfort and even a little amused by it: ‘Give me a minute,’ she said, then rose and left the room.
Emma returned and I’m certain she had folded her skirt about the waistband, shortening by an inch or two. I tried not to stare, but my neck hairs rose like a curled up hedgehog.
I distracted myself by expressing good wishes for her future, sadness at her departure and concern about her wellbeing. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ I said lamely, like a mother hen. It was a casual remark, but at that moment and on that sofa, it arrived like an invitation on a silver plate. I almost cringed as it hung there between us, ready to be discarded or opened.
‘You could always…..’ she began, her eyes dropping from mine, ‘spank.’
This was something I hadn’t bargained for. I could have simultaneously dropped to the floor and traversed the ceiling. I needed time to think; was she serious? She’s joking right? How to respond? I couldn’t just reach out and grab her. Somehow, I managed to pull myself together. ‘OK,’ I blurted, ‘then go and stand in the corner.’
To my astonishment she skipped across the room, side-stepping the clutter, eager to see what was to come.
I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing, this charming girl placing herself close against the wall, but it gave me confidence. ‘Hands on your head as well.’ I ventured, which she did, bless her, with a theatrical flourish. I rose unsteadily and grabbed the kitchen stool, negotiating a new place for it in the centre of the room. I sat catching my breath; she remained quite still, making no effort to turn around.
I called her over and she approached and stood beside me, face half hidden behind long dark hair, her legs just brushing against mine. This was the moment, I thought, there was no going back now; ‘Over my knee,’ I ordered.
Without hesitation she leaned forward, hands pressing on my thigh and tilted herself over. The height of the stool meant she could only just lay on her tummy leaving both feet planted on the floor, so I took her hips and hoisted her over, it had the delicious effect of bending and raising her bottom, her panties peeping out in a red ‘V’ beneath her skirt.
She reached out to the floor, but the gap was too great; instead her arms hung and fell limp. I gripped her waist, evoking the helplessness of being over a parent’s knee.
Emma lowered her head and peered under the stool at her toes, now just barely touching the floor. I took the hint and eased her slightly forward, lifting her until she was entirely draped over my knee. It was a move she welcomed, for she gave a satisfied sigh.
As I raised her skirt, I imagined her biting her lip, her habit when in deep concentration. Having revealed her panties, I smoothed the fabric until it was taut as a drum, my palm cupping the mounds of her bottom. She remained quite still, content to surrender control and be positioned however I chose. I left my palm on her raised bottom, inviting her to explore its warmth and texture. I felt her weakening beneath my touch, her body melting over my knees. She felt so very light against the firmness of my thighs, her young heart pounding with anticipation.
Then came a strange thought: my trousers were soft brushed cloth; I wondered if her naked thighs noticed that. I moved slightly, rubbing against her, another almost imperceptible gasp came from the floor below.
I stopped, her breathing slowed and she lowered her head once more. In that long unresisting moment, seconds felt like minutes. I felt I should say something; should I admonish? But what about? Would I risk offense? I had no idea, so I said something bland. ‘You see the floor in front of you?’
‘Yes, but never this close before, reminds me of….’ Her voice trailed into a hint.
Then, inspiration; her bottom was directed toward the door, so I asked another neutral question ‘If someone was listening at the door, who would it be?’ I imagined her furrowed brow as she thought about that.
‘My kid brother’, she whispered.
Whether this was fantasy or an awakening memory, I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t pry, for this was her moment as much as it was mine. ‘Then you’ll want him to know what is happening to you.’
‘Oh yessss.’ She wriggled contentedly.
‘Then straighten your arms.’ She complied immediately, as if to spring dive into a pool. ‘Let’s make sure he knows.’
And so her spanking began, I raised my hand and brought it firmly but not ungently down on her bottom. The suddenness of the sound startled us both.
‘Ow!’ She cried out like a Hollywood starlet, but it carried with it permission to continue. My confidence grew as her spanking progressed. All that could be heard now was the regular drum of my palm across her upturned bottom and her response. Had he been listening at the door, her brother would have had no doubt at all that his older sister was being spanked.
Throughout all this she kept her fingers directed to the floor; making no attempt to grab either my leg or the stool, remaining obedient and helpless, squirming just occasionally beneath my firm grip.
I kept the spanking formal, and made no attempt at intimate touching. By keeping this space between us, we could fill it with our respective imaginations, though I suspect we both felt this to be a domestic correction.
As I continued, she reached further and further over my knee, gasping with each slap. I felt no resistance just growing pleasure at being spanked by someone she trusted.
I was in my stride now, spanking her as rhythmically as a pendulum, until her bottom glowed bright pink. Then I stopped and gently stroked her. She sighed audibly; how strange that I had never even kissed her cheek, and here I was caressing her bottom. In the ensuing quiet the overwhelming sense was of contentment and peace.
When I released her, she rose and without a word, returned to the corner and pressed her nose against the wall, hands clasped upon her head. The sound of the spanking had felt so evocative I decided to add one more. I approached and unclipped my leather belt, sliding it slowly through the loops of my trousers with a deliberate ‘thhrriiiip’. I folded it in half and snapped it a few times like an angry father. She stiffened at the sound, then I draped it over her shoulder – ‘You know this will be waiting for you when you return to England’ I warned.
‘Oh my god, yessss.’ She replied.
For five minutes she remained with my belt balanced over her shoulder. Not a word was spoken. She was so very alluring, but I made no attempt to touch; this was no invitation to intimacy, rather a moment of introspection. Perhaps Emma was reliving a real event or enjoying a fantasy fulfilled, I don’t know. When she finally turned round she smiled and gave me a peck on the cheek. It was enough, enough for both of us.
So I left Emma - named after the novel, not the Spice Girl – and walked in a daze to the Underground. I stood on the platform feeling light headed, pressed by people going about their daily lives unaware of this remarkable girl, balanced so deliciously over my knees, helpless, unable even to reach the floor.
I boarded the train as the PA made an announcement familiar to all Londoners, ‘Mind the Gap’ - I couldn’t help but smile.
Cheers!
Pendragon