Discomfort Me With Apples

"Discomfort Me With Apples" -  Originally published by Abby Williams on her blog The Little Red Schoolhouse, 2011

 

Part One

A few hours after revealing a fantasy I'd been having based on a spanking video I saw a decade ago, I found myself at the mercy of an apple farmer ripe with anger over my theft of his produce.

"What have you been doing?" he demanded.

"N-n-nothing," I stammered, unsure where the line of query was heading. After all, I thought I was in our bedroom, naked and ready for a little playtime but not at all realizing I was standing at the base of a maturely gnarled and heavily laden apple tree, bag of stolen Mcintosh in hand, about to be spanked for my collection of this forbidden fruit.

"I hardly think that's the truth," Mr. Williams replied. "What's this? A bag of my apples?" He pointed to my right hand, empty but for the fruits of our imagination. In this case, that was enough.

I caught on, realizing he was allowing me to play out the fantasy I had confessed to earlier. Of course, it would have his own twists to be detailed in good time, but quickly I replied, "Yes, sir. Your apples were so bright red and beautiful, I could not resist."

"Red and beautiful, hm? I have my own mind of what we shall call bright red and beautiful, but let's see what you have to say for yourself first. How many of my apples did you steal?" As he spoke, he removed his belt. He folded it and snapped it, letting me know that no matter my answer, the leather was destined for my bare skin.

I don't know why I said it, but I told him, "Three sir. Only sir." He peered into the imaginary bag then put his hand on my lower back, pressing so I bent slightly forward. "Only three?" The belt whipped quickly across my backside three times. "Fuck!" I hissed without realizing I was cursing before the word was out of my mouth.

I heard him swallow a laugh. For a moment I was embarrassed at my expression of shocked pain, but then I realized this was my character, obstinate and foul-mouthed, ready and willing to steal for the thrill, but ready to take her comeuppance as well. "No sir, not only three. I subtracted ten. I stole thirteen apples."

Mr. Williams sighed, as if he really was disappointed in me, as if he would have preferred that I had not stolen thirteen of his pretend apples. Of course, the actual disappoint was that I had not stolen twenty-three, or thirty-three instead, but he allowed me the grace of only thirteen. As if it hurt him more than it was going to hurt me, he instructed, "Bend over and touch your toes."

I bent over, fingertips to toes, shifting my body weight from side to side as if I really was an impatient young thief, ready to receive her spanking so she could be on her delinquent way. "Thirteen strokes, then," said Mr. Williams. "You will count."

"Yes, sir," I murmured, but at the first stroke of the belt, I found myself angry, irritated with the pain and the situation. I huffed, letting him know I was irritated with the punishment. "One, Sir," I sneered.

The second stroke landed, harder than the first, just where bottom meets thigh. I refused to show how much it stung. "Two, Sir."

The third stroke fell as hard as the second, whipping across the same spot. I cried out and felt shame. He was making a point. I wasn't going to get away with obstinacy. The only appropriate reaction was pain, not irritation. But I wasn't giving in. "Three, Sir," I counted through clenched teeth.

He rubbed the folded end of the belt across my bottom in a sawing motion, the same he uses when he's holding a cane. If I was clever I'd have noticed the foreshadowing, but I was too caught up in the character and the sensation of the belt. I wanted him to know how much it hurt. The character wanted him to know she was non-plussed, that a little belt whipping wasn't going to change her ways. Confusion won and I wasn't at all prepared when the fourth stroke came. It was across the full of my backside, stinging from left to right. I stood up, and I am not sure if I was fully broken from the character or completely subsumed by her when I squealed, "Holy shit! That fucking hurt!"

"Bend over," he commanded. "Watch your language." He paused a moment. "Are we not counting?"

"Four, Sir." I collapsed a little into the pose, a signal I hoped he would recognize as submission.

The fifth and sixth strokes were less shocking. I counted them properly and I didn't make a scene. Stroke seven would mark the halfway point. I had started to relax after the two strokes I could handle; I thought I had shown that I was willing to take the punishment and that he would be less forceful about the punishment, in kind. I was wrong. The seventh stroke crossed my thighs in a painful amalgamation of cruelty and curiosity. Mr. Williams knows that I detest any spanking upon my thighs, and I know he's always interested in my reaction. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that I was being tested. Instead, I screamed. I don't know if I was speaking to Mr. Williams or myself when I followed the scream with, "What the fuck?" I just had not been expecting that level of pain in our apple farmer scenario.

The silence then was so strong that I began to twitch. "I'm sorry, Sir," I whispered. "That's seven."

"That's right," he said tersely. I was in for it.

Strokes eight through twelve were hard, but my submission was no longer an act. I wasn't going to fight the belting any longer. I counted, and the strokes stung. At one point, I don't remember at which stroke, I became a little dizzy. But I held position as long as Mr. Williams held the belt.

After stroke twelve, we both knew I had only one left to come. Mr. Williams paused to give the stroke the gravity any presumed last stroke of a punishment deserves, and this was no different, despite the punishment being for an imagined crime. My only misdeed, in retrospect, was confessing the fantasy to him in the first place, as it had been turned on me, as the best fantasies, when shared, are wont to do.

"Last stroke," he said. "Are you ready?"

I prepared myself, making sure my position was as he would desire, bent fully, hands resting atop my feet, bottom pushed out, fully on display to meet the belt. "Yes, Sir," I whispered. I knew the stroke was going to be very hard, that the tears already formed in the corners of my eyes were going to flow, that I would wish I had never mentioned the apple farmer video that afternoon. The belt cut across both cheeks and I howled, but quickly fell silent, trying to catch my breath. "Thirteen, Sir."

"You may rub," he responded.

I stood there, not rubbing, not wanting to show that it had hurt, despite my tears. Pride took over unexpectedly. In other words, I stood there, near the corner of our bedroom, pouting just as hard as I could. Pouting so hard that I didn't notice Mr. Williams walk to the other side of the bedroom until he commanded, his voice now farther away, "Over here, hands and knees on the bed. Now."

"Oh God," I whispered to myself, not mentally prepared for more. What had I gotten myself into this time?

Part Two

I kneel on the bed, cautiously, hesitantly, as if it is a worn wooden bench outside a barn, as if splinters are poised to break the bare skin of my knees should I move too quickly. I am also tentative of the unknown. The belt hurt more than I expected it to, more than I wanted it to hurt. The balance of character and self is precarious. I want to be playing with Mr. W; the apple thief does not want to be punished any longer.

As wife, I know I'm wet, know I'm ready for Mr. W to take the scene where it always leads, but the swish of a cane through the air behind my poised backside lets me know the farmer is not ready to let the apple thief off so easily. I clutch a pillow just before the cane lands.

Thirteen strokes of the belt have not properly warmed my bottom and I lurch forwards into the pillow to stifle my howl of pain. A tap on my lower back reminds me to return to position, kneeling on my hands and knees properly with my back arched and bottom presented. I tensely shift back, not ready but not wanting to seem unwilling.

The next stroke cuts full across the spot where bottom meets thigh, and though I begin to wimper, the thief, who can say the things I would not, says through clenched teeth, "That. Fucking. Hurt."

"Maybe this will help with the pain," Mr. W says. He goes to the nightstand and I think he's going to pull out one of the smaller paddles, something to finish warming me before the remaining eleven cane strokes I know he still wants to give me. Trusting in my husband, I close my eyes.

He returns to his place behind me, stroking my bottom, then clutching the flesh beneath his palm, pulling me open so that I feel even more naked than I already am. His finger touches the orifice between my reddened cheeks, pressing just a little. I relax into the touch. He presses deeper, then pulls out. I think I am about to receive a gentle leather paddling, something sexy, something that will finally send the farmer and the thief from the room. Instead, he presses into me again, this time with something thicker, firmer. It's not flesh. I recognize the toy we bought just weeks ago specifically for this purpose, for this spot, and irrationally, indignantly, the apple thief rears back. "Sir! I hardly think I know you well enough for that!"

Mr. W, clever farmer that he is, pushes me back down. "You've been on this farm before," he says.

I can't hold back. I snort, then giggle, then I'm all out laughing. He begins to laugh too, and the tenseness of the entire scenario is broken. I wiggle my bum at him. "You're right," I say, "I have been on this farm before. I remember now why I came back."

He slides the toy into me and I groan, but happily. The caning begins again. I don't have to count aloud, I just have to take it, holding the toy inside me, trying not to cry out too loudly. It still hurts - it's a caning, after all - but the fear is broken and I ride the pain as I love to do. The strokes are slow, with plenty of recovery time. Tears form but it's nothing I can't stand.

We get to stroke ten and Mr. W pauses. "Three left," he tells me, his voice low and rough, the voice that means he wants the caning to be finished as much as I do, the voice that says he, too, is ready to be inside me. "Would you like your last three to be gentle and slow, or hard and fast?"

"Hard and fast," I say without thinking. He rubs my welts for a moment, surely planning the final three. As he rubs, I reach down to touch myself, not surprised to find how wet and swollen the play has made me. My fingers stray back a little; the toy is still firmly in place. Mr. W sees my exploration and strikes the air with the cane, prepping. "Ready?" he asks.

"Yes," I breathe. Three strokes land in an explosion of agony, but so quickly I can barely breathe, nevermind scream. He throws the cane down, pulls my hips back, and drives into me. I am completely filled. The arch of pain from the last strokes has not yet finished and the combination of toy and man is still so new as to be overwhelming. Moments in, I'm already coming, the orgasm rendering me back to my complete self.

But as the apple thief leaves the room, she and I are finally in agreement about one thing: she'll be back to this farm again.