SueFromDenver Ch. 06

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Chapter Six

For the next month, we settled into life as a couple. I was surprised at how easily, and how comfortably, I fell into the role of homemaker. He would do his cowboy thing, and I kept house. I relearned my cooking skills and loved greeting him when he came home, tired and sweaty, with a beer, a kiss, and a hot supper on the table.

He had a self-defense “school” set up in a downtown storefront and we would go down there at least twice a week. His “classes” were by appointment only, and he taught women how to be as close to rape proof as possible. Since I had accumulated black belts in Japanese Karate, Korean Tai-Kwan-do, Chinese Shaolin-do (kung fu), and American freestyle, it was an interesting contrast. My style of self-defense focused on smooth movements, those techniques that used momentum and careful strikes, the stuff you see on TV and in the movies in other words. His was pure army, something he summed up as, “hit hard, hit often, keep hitting until he stops moving.”

He seemed fascinated with the movements of the Chinese forms, and I taught him Cranes and Snakes and Tigers. He taught me how to gouge an eye, break a nose, or strike a throat in a potentially killing blow. When he would have one of his students in we would demonstrate at full speed so she could see what a technique would look like in real-time. When there was no student we would work out and spar, giving each other lumps and bruises and enjoying it all. Soon I found myself in the best shape of my life, the debauchery of those past three years a fading memory.

We went out, regularly too. He had bought me three outfits that I rotated through on our “date nights.” He was always the gentleman, and I absolutely wallowed in his little courtesies. I LIKED having doors opened for me, having chairs held, and in a wonderfully old-fashioned gesture, having him stand when I came back from the lady’s room.

We would eat and drink (I was never an alcoholic, just a drunk for a while) and dance. We caught all of the movies, strangely enough, it was me insisting on the actioners while he seemed addicted to chick flicks. When we got home, the sex was wonderful. If there is a heaven, I’m sure his Mamy Mama is smiling down on us. Thank you, dear lady.

We got home from one of our date nights and I realized there was something different between us. When we stepped in the front door I turned and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and said, “WHAT!?”

He kind of chuckled at that and leaned forward and kissed me.

“Come and sit with me, Susan (he still insisted on calling me Susan, NEVER Sue),” he said, “and all will be revealed.”

I giggled at that. I LOVED when he fell into his courtly style.

So we sat on the couch, his arm around me, my head nestled against his shoulder, looking like a couple of teenagers I suppose.

“Spill it,” I said.

“There’s one final thing that mom taught me that I haven’t told you about,” he said.

He obviously wanted a reaction so I said, “go on.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “a woman needs to be claimed, to be reminded.”

“Reminded?” I asked, not really following.

“Not often,” he said, “maybe once a month or so, she would ask me to turn her over my knees.”

My breath caught.

“You mean like a spanking?” I asked.

He chuckled at that. “I mean EXACTLY a spanking,” he said.

I turned and looked at him.

“You’re serious?” I asked.

“Yes, Susan,” he said, “I’m serious. I won’t force you, but it’s something I think you should try.”

“Right now?” I asked and he smiled.

“When you’re ready,” he said, “you’ll let me know. For now, just think about it.”

“Your mom?” I asked.

He laughed softly and said, “yes. Once Mamy Mama was done with me mom took me to her bed. One of the things about the Oneidas was that they didn’t have a taboo against incest. The thing is, mom was a very high functioning alcoholic, but it was a strain on her. You know how it is when you’re in charge. You’re always making decisions and in her case, often those decisions were literally life and death decisions. And sometimes she needed, desperately, the release of the pure submission, and yes, the pain, of the spankings. I, of course, was always happy to accommodate her.”

We made love that night very gently. My back was healed up, and sometimes we got wild and rough, sometimes it was like this, gentle and slow. I liked, very much, that he seemed able to keep me guessin’.

I suppose that is why, the second Friday after he had broached the subject, when we got home I had him stand, just inside the front door, a funny look on his face, while I walked into the kitchen and got one of the sturdy kitchen chairs. I put it in the middle of the floor and led him to it. When he sat I bent and kissed him.

“Wes,” I said, “I’m scared.”

He smiled, understanding, and said, “then don’t do it.”

“Oh God,” I moaned, and bent down and laid myself across his lap.

He didn’t say anything as he lifted the short skirt and then pulled my panties down, exposing my bahis siteleri ass but leaving the elastic as a tight band around the top of my thighs.

I shivered as his hand, strong and hard, laid across my ass and caressed gently.

“Susan,” he said, “this MUST be with your consent. You can say ‘stop’ any time you want. We don’t need any safe words if you trust me.”

“I understand,” I managed, my breath already catching.

He caressed my ass, very gently, his palm brushing the skin. When he lifted his hand I clenched. It was involuntary. I don’t think I could have stopped myself from doing it.

He waited, and when I relaxed, the first stroke was hardly more than a pat.

I gasped, anyway, and finally breathed out as he began caressing again.

“One,” he said.

I have no idea how long that first spanking lasted. He would caress and calm me, then his hand would lift and I would clench up, he would wait, I would relax, and each stroke would be slightly harder than the last, followed by his count.

By “10” it was starting to hurt.

By “20” I would shudder with each stroke.

I started to cry about “25” but something strange was happening too. The pressure deep in my belly, as if we were engaged in foreplay, started to build.

His left hand was between my shoulder blades, holding me down, while his right spanked me.

I was bawling by “50.” But I was also aroused. I could smell my excitement, feel my nipples so hard they ached, and way down in my mind, down where the lizards still ruled, I understood.

At “74” I came as I had never cum before. I’ve always been pretty, well, wet when I climaxed, but not a “squirter” as you see in those porno videos. But this time I didn’t just “squirt,” I sprayed. I thought I had lost bladder control. I could hear my release spattering on the floor and then feel it running down my legs. My entire body was involved, every muscle fiber suddenly clenched.

Later, when he asked me about it, I told him it was like a blast of purest white pleasure suddenly blasted away the agony.

When he lifted his hand for “75” I couldn’t even clench, and at “82” I came again, another of those life-changing orgasms.

When I relaxed that time he said, “I think that’s enough for now,” and I didn’t want it to end. I was crying, tears and drool and snot puddling on the floor, my breathing in harsh little gasps, but I didn’t want it to end. I sort of whimpered when I realized that it was over for now.

It seemed natural then to squirm around and get on my knees before him. He smiled as I started on his belt buckle and then the button of his jeans and his zipper. He lifted himself enough to allow me to get his jeans past his hips but he didn’t really help me and I was glad, I WANTED to do this work myself.

I was still crying, my nose running, my saliva thick with mucus, and his cock was instantly slick in my mouth.

His damn control made me work, crying and laughing at once as my head bobbed and I tried, desperately, to make him cum.

I was tiring, hell, I was exhausted before he finally grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled me off of him, and came on my face and in my hair, smiling down at me.

“Now do you understand?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Good,” he said simply and stood, pulled his pants back up, offered me his hand, and walked me into the bedroom.

I woke the next morning when I rolled over and the sharp pain in my ass jolted me awake. I eased out of the bed, trying to not wake him, went into the bathroom and sat, very gingerly, and peed. Then I went to the vanity and turned to look over my shoulder. My ass had two almost perfectly round bruises, right where I sit.

It was a month before he took me back to that roadhouse where it had all started. I hadn’t said anything, but I did appreciate his courtesy.

But now, here we were. Of course, this time I had panties on and hadn’t loaded my pussy with Vaseline. But it still felt funny.

Instead of sitting at the bar, we took one of the tiny hubcap-size tables. This was a dinner date after all. I had a screwdriver, he had beer of course. For dinner we both had Sloppers, this bar’s signature dish – a third of a pound hamburger served open-faced and covered with a liberal helping of an absolutely delicious green chili.

Slightly drunk, well, tipsy anyway, I went to the jukebox to find some music. I was reading through the selections, my hips moving to the rhythm of the medium-fast cowboy music someone else had selected before me, when I felt a hip bump mine. I giggled and turned.

It wasn’t Wes. It was one of the guys I had encountered my first night here. I looked around and saw Wes sitting at our table, watching.

“Come on, sweet cheeks,” he said, laying his hand on my hip, “let’s dance.”

I met his eyes and said, “take your hand off of me before I break it into little bitty pieces.”

He gave me the big-eyed “oooooooooooooooooo,” mocking me. But he DID take his hand off of my hip.

Back at the table, I said, “Thanks canlı bahis siteleri a fucking LOT.”

He laughed and said, “Susan, when you need help with a Bozo like that I’ll just call the coroner.”

I giggled at that, the tension broken.

We stayed there for the rest of the night. On some level, I suppose it was a challenge of sorts. We had a few drinks, danced a few times, and had a good time.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Feeling?” I replied.

“Yeah, feeling,” he said, “this is sort of your cotillion after all.”

“Cotillion?” I asked.

“Christ, what DID you study at that college you say you went to?” he asked.

I laughed and said I was a history major

“Bullshit,” he said, “no history major doesn’t know what a cotillion is.”

“This one don’t,” I said.

“A cotillion,” he said, assuming what I thought of as his teacher’s voice, “is the formal coming-out ball for girls to meet society.”

“I’m coming out?” I asked.

He chuckled, “well, in a way, you are.”

We got up then and headed for the door.

As we passed the table with my erstwhile dance partner, there were four of them at the table by then, one of them said something like, “Nah, I wouldn’t fuck that with your dick.”

We stopped, and I put my hand on Wes’s arm.

“Easy now,” I said.

He took my hand and led me back to the table where they sat.

“Duane,” he said, his grin feral, “Tom, Jimmy, Billy Bob, have you met my lady? Susan, meet the boys, boys, meet Susan.”

The first one he had addressed made to rise but Wes put his hand on his shoulder.

“Another time, boy,” he said.

The tableau held for a few seconds before Duane sat.

We walked out.

“And what was that?” I asked.

“Just two old dogs growling at each other and now I need to go pee on a lamppost,” he said.

I laughed and took his arm.

At the house, I stopped inside the door, turned, kissed him, and said, “wait right here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

I went into the kitchen and got that sturdy chair, drug it into the front room, and set it in the middle of the floor.

“Already?” he asked.

“No, baby,” I said, walking to him, pressing my body against him, standing on my tiptoes, and breathing directly into his ear, “good for the goose and good for the gander honey.”

His eyes got big at that. I flashed my best grin.

“Come on, naughty boy,” I said, taking his hand and leading him to where the chair sat.

“Susan,” he said in a very soft voice.

“Are you saying ‘no’ to me?” I asked.

He held my eyes with his and I watched as he reached a decision.

Finally, his shoulders slumped a little and he said, “I will never say ‘no’ to you.”

“Good,” I said, and sat.

He stood very still as I unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped his pants, and then worked them down past his slim hips, just enough to expose his ass. Well, his cock too, which was fully erect so I bent and kissed it.

He took my hand when I offered and then I pulled him slowly forward until his balance forced him to bend over my lap.

“Now listen,” I said, my hand caressing his ass lightly. He’s not a terribly hairy guy, and the firm roundness felt very good under my hand.

“Do not,” I continued, “prove what a tough guy you are by refusing to cry. I know you are tough. Hell, you’re one of the few men in the fucking world I would be afraid to fight. But this, as you taught me so well, is about trust and surrender. So cry, baby, and don’t you dare fake it.”

He didn’t say anything so I continued caressing until he relaxed. When I lifted my palm he clenched and I learned what he found so damn attractive about administering the spanking. The wave of power and control I felt made my nipples hard and I felt myself get wet instantly.

When he relaxed I struck, as he had, barely more than a pat, and he flinched.

“You are beautiful,” I said, mimicking what he had told me so many times and he sort of hummed, a soft “mmmmmm” sound as he relaxed again under my caressing hand.

“One,” I said, almost as an afterthought.

By “ten” I was addicted. Each stroke was a separate rush of power and control and I LOVED the sensation. My nipples were aching they were so hard, and I knew when I stood my own jeans would be dark with my arousal.

At “twenty-seven” he started crying and I goddam nearly came. It was soft, almost a whimper at first, but by “thirty” he was crying in earnest and I thought it was probably very therapeutic for him. I wondered if he had even talked to anyone about the experiences he had had since he came back from “the shit” as he called his time in Afghanistan.

I felt an amazing tenderness for him, feeling motherly but also wanting him so goddam badly it was the farthest thing from “motherly” you can imagine. And I was also enjoying, probably too much, the physical sensation. I was enjoying the sharp pain in my palm as the strokes got harder. I was loving the sound as each stroke was a distinct “SMACK.” And I LOVED canlı bahis the color in his ass, the bright red circles forming at the roundest spot.

I stopped at “fifty.” It was clear he wasn’t going to cum from what I was doing and, to be honest, I was tiring.

“Stand up,” I told him and he did.

It was a side of him I had never imagined. His eyes were red. His nose was red and running. Snot and thick drool hung from his chin, wetting his shirt.

I smiled and said, “you’re beautiful,” and stood and led him to bed.

I undressed him. He was still crying softly as I turned down the covers for him. As he lay on his side I undressed quickly and crawled into bed with him. I used my hand on the back of his head to guide him, and lifted my breast with the other hand, offering.

When he latched on I did cum, just like that.

I held him then, stroking his hair, humming a lullaby as he suckled and slowly settled down into normal breathing.

When he released my tit and rolled us over so he could slip inside of me I came again, just like that.

“Thank you,” he said softly, smiling down at me.

“No baby,” I said, “thank you for your sweet surrender and for loving me enough to take that risk.”

Our lovemaking that night was the longest, slowest, and most tender I ever experienced, before or since. We kissed and told each other “I love you,” and kissed some more like we were teenagers just figuring things out but also like we were experienced and enjoying each other.

I have no idea how many orgasms he gave me. It was a LOT! ((giggles))

When he finally surrendered his control it was his entire body that was involved. He was absolutely rigid as he filled me to overflowing, and he lasted too.

He barely got off of me before he was snoring and I wasn’t far behind him.


About a week later he called me at home, something very rare.

“Meet me at the dojo in half an hour,” he said and hung up.

I assumed he had a private student and needed a demonstration partner so I headed over to get ready and loosen up. I put on my gi, and went through my normal warm-up, stretching, twisting various joints, running in place a bit to break a sweat, and generally getting ready.

I was, much to my surprise, in the best condition I had ever been in my life. Hell, I even landed the standing back handspring I threw.

The door opened and I had a moment of panic when Duane, my erstwhile sparring partner walked in. Tim, Jimmy, and Billy Bob followed and my breath caught but then Wes followed them in and I relaxed.

“There she is, boys,” he said, “you can try her one-on-one or if you’d like, give me a second to kick off these boots and we’ll have a go four-on-two. I’d REALLY like that.”

When no one moved I lifted my arm, palm up and fingers extended, and then bent them at the first knuckle twice, quickly, in the universal, “come on” gesture.

“Let’s you and me have a discussion, Duane,” I said.

He looked at Wes, then at his backup, and stepped onto the matt.

He really was a big guy, and I put on my best, “oh fuck, what have I done now,” look and started backing up slowly.

He smiled at that, a big guy, used to winning his fights.

I watched the distances very carefully, he WAS a big guy, and then ended the fight.

It’s called something in Korean and Japanese and Chinese, all of which I had learned at one time or another and then promptly forgotten. In American freestyle, it’s simply called a sidekick and like every kick in Oriental martial arts, there are four separate motions involved although if they’re done right it looks like one smooth motion.

Step one, blade the foot. Leg lifted until it is at 90 degrees from the perpendicular of your spine, toes up, ready to strike.

Step two, leg extended, pivoting on the down foot to put all of your weight into the strike, the great bone of the heel striking the target.

Step three, return to the bladed foot position.

Step four, foot down, balance returning, fighting stance again.

In this case, the target was about six inches behind his right knee which had been locked under his weight as he took another step to close with me.

That fight was over. Duane was laying on his side, holding his knee, making an odd keening sound.

The other three started onto the mat and Wes started but stopped at a shake of my head.

I had about a quart of adrenaline in my blood along with months of pent-up need for revenge and I was ready.

Tim was the one in the middle and he’s the one I took first. I did something I would NEVER do against a trained opponent, I left the ground. I took three steps and leaped, throwing the same kick, this time the target was his jaw and his teeth clicked together with a satisfying snap, his head jolted back, and he was out.

I landed, rolling, and swept Billy Bob’s feet from under him landing him flat on his back, driving the wind from him.

I was out of time though, and as Jimmy closed he landed a solid shot to my midsection. He missed the solar plexus though, if that was what he was aiming for, and I was tense and ready, not caught by surprise this time. I stomped on his foot and when he bent kneed him in the face, feeling the crunch of a broken nose.

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