Chapter 1

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, BDSM, MaleDom, Spanking, .

Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - After his wife dies of cancer, Bob realizes he must look for someone new, but has no idea where to look. He resorts to reading palms and sees what he's looking for, whether it's there or not.

I was bereft. Meg, my wife of 24 years, had died of cancer. At age 45, I found myself a widower. For weeks after the funeral I would come home from work and rattle around inside the big empty house and cry and feel sorry for myself. The kids would call once or twice a week, but they were grown and moved away and had their own lives. Their occasional calls still left a lot of time to fill. Not that I didn't have anything to do. I had always helped around the house, done laundry, cooked meals, vacuumed the floor, whatever needed doing, especially when the kids were growing up. Even so, I was amazed at the number of tasks she had performed which now fell to me. As much as I had loved her, she had been under appreciated.

About five years prior to her death, Meg and I had bought the house we'd always wanted. It was a large turn-of-the-century stone house in an older part of town. We bought it from a pair of gay guys who had spent a ridiculous amount of money restoring the interior. Since the house wouldn't appraise for as much as they had in it, we got a very good deal. The house was gorgeous. It was paneled in mahogany and quarter sawn-white oak with stained glass everywhere. There was a huge front porch which spanned the entire front of the house and wrapped half way around the south side. The previous owners had restored the interior in impeccable taste, so we didn't have to do much but move in. Unfortunately, they had disregarded some of the more mundane concerns. We had to put a new tile roof on it, pour a new front porch floor, replace the back porch, and repair one of the most incompetent jobs of rewiring I had ever seen. I didn't know who their electrician had been, but I half expected to find his body lying about wherever he had fallen when he had electrocuted himself.

After a while, I began to get hold of myself. I would need to find someone new. (I didn't really want anyone new. I wanted Meg. I wanted my old life back. But they were gone forever.) I had discovered I didn't like living alone and I really didn't like sleeping alone. The prospect was daunting. I hadn't dated in 25 years. Things had changed. So had I. Most of the women my age were married. Of the remaining minority, many were single for good reason. So now what? How would I go about finding someone? Where would I look?

One of the guys who worked for me tended bar part time. He invited me to drop by some evening and check things out. I thought I'd give it a try just to get my feet wet.

I wandered in about 8:00 on Friday evening. It was Goth night. Mike had forgotten to warn me about this. One Friday night a month was Goth night and this just happened to be it. I sat at the bar talking to Mike and watching the show. There was a live band, but the customers were more entertaining. While I was amused by the Goths, I wasn't actually laughing at them. They reminded me too much of my own days as a hippie. I talked to a number of them and except for the outfits, they seemed like normal kids. I liked them. They were less ideological than my friends and I had been at that age, but neither (thank heavens) did they have the Viet Nam war to function as a political catalyst. I was somewhat put off by the tattoos and the piercings. I thought a lot of them would come to regret the tattoos as they got older and tattoos went out of style. The piercings were more easily undone, but I found them more irritating. It wasn't the first time people had done idiotic things because it was fashionable, but the pierced tongues, eyebrows, etc. were a bit much for me. It was like when you were a kid and you wanted to do something particularly stupid but your mother wouldn't let you. "But Tommy Jones is doing it." And your mother would ask you, "If Tommy Jones jumped off a cliff would you jump of a cliff too?" These were the people whose answer to that question was 'yes'. Some of them looked like they actually had jumped off a cliff. Their survival was a testament to devolution.

At least on this occasion, there weren't any women there in my age bracket. It was just as well. The problem with meeting women in bars is that you meet women who hang around in bars. You probably had a better chance of getting laid (and I had nothing against getting laid), but I wanted something more. I had an emptiness to fill.

Actually, I did have a good time. I danced with a few of the girls, drank a couple beers, argued politics and the meaning of life with whoever was willing, and enjoyed the music. I was clearly out of place in this crowd, but the novelty of it was refreshing. About midnight I said goodnight to Mike and went home. Alone.

About a week later, I got a call from Jane. Jane had been one of Meg's close friends. She was a few years younger than I and single. I had thought about her off and on, but didn't want to be seen as chasing around after Meg's friends. I invited Jane over to dinner. She agreed to come if she could cook.

It was a beautiful evening in early June. When supper was ready, we took it outside and ate on the porch. The front porch was on the east side of the house, so it had been in the shade all afternoon. The stone had cooled down to the point where it was quite pleasant, but if you put your bare feet on the floor, there was still some residual warmth there.

When we finished eating, we sat in the swing and drank a bottle of wine. We talked for a time and after a while we were kissing. Nothing serious, just some kissing and groping on the porch swing. It reminded me of high school. Eventually, the wine started making us sleepy, and it was time to call it a night.

Jane drove off after I walked her to car. I returned to the porch and sat for a couple of hours. I was content to let things drift. Even though I knew Jane fairly well, I wasn't sure how I felt about her. There was no pressure. Things would work out or they wouldn't.

There was one other little wrinkle. I had always been into bondage, and Meg and I had seldom had sex when she wasn't tied up. I had always been mildly embarrassed (but only mildly) by this predilection and had never discussed it or indulged in it with anyone except Meg. Neither did I engage in much self analysis in this regard, partly out of the fear that if I figured it out, I might stop liking it. Meg's attitude about being tied up had always been ambivalent. She did, however, enjoy the attention she got when she was tied up. Being bound, per se, was not her idea of a good time, but the things that happened after she was tied made it worthwhile in her mind. On rare occasions, she would ask to be bound. She had always told me that she didn't like to be spanked. I often spanked her anyway. A spanking would always be followed by a particularly intense orgasm on her part, and although she always complained, she would always submit. (For me, bondage and spanking were the same turn on. I know this is not the case for everyone, but I tended to put them in the same category.) Oddly enough, she was quite turned on by nipple clamps. For me, sex without bondage was almost as bad as life without sex. This was a sine qua non (Latin for 'this is not a typo') for any relationship as far as I was concerned.

Jane came over for dinner again the following Friday. This time I cooked and we ate on the porch again. After supper, we opened another bottle of wine. Jane was bubbly and effusive. She was in the middle of relating some incident that had happened at work that day when I stood up, took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Jane continued prattling merrily along as I took her by the shoulders and turned her so she was facing away from me. Pulling her arms behind her, I crossed her wrists and tied them with a piece of rope. Jane stopped talking almost in mid sentence.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm tying you up."

"Meg told me about this."

"She did?"

"Yes. I didn't expect it quite so soon. So now you can do anything you want with me."


"Did you consider it might be unnecessary, that perhaps you could have your way with me without having to tie me down?"

"Yes, I considered it. But I'm not tying you up because it's necessary. I'm doing it because I want to."

"If you must. I've never done it this way before. Maybe it will be fun."

Brushing her hair aside, I kissed her gently at the base of her neck where it joined her shoulder. (I should mention that with the 3 foot high stone walls, large stone pillars, and attendant shrubbery, the porch is very private). I kissed her at the same spot on the other side of her neck. Jane leaned back against me. She struggled a bit, testing the ropes, but she was securely bound. I was experienced. Reaching around from behind, I ran my hands from her navel up to her breasts. I could feel her nipples harden through her blouse. She had apparently forgotten to wear a bra. I took her by the shoulders and turned her around. As she faced me, she started to say something but I put my finger to her lips and she subsided. I took her head between my hands and kissed her. After a bit more kissing and some gnawing of her nipples, I led her over to the wall. Taking her by the shoulders, I bent her over the wall. It was a bit high for her and she had to stand on her toes. I ran my hand up the back of her leg, then lifted her skirt, pulled down her panties and plunged into her. Being outside, Jane tried hard to suppress her moans but was only partially successful.

I pulled Jane to her feet and untied her. She stood there rubbing her wrists. I sat her down on the swing, then bound her wrists again, this time in front. Then I removed her shoes and tied her ankles. As I sat down beside her, Jane swung her feet up on the swing and lay down with her head in my lap.

"It's just not my thing. I mean, I can sort of see how it would be a turn-on for some people, but it doesn't do anything special for me. I enjoyed it and everything, but I would have liked it just as well and maybe better if I wasn't tied up."

"You never know till you try. Now you know."

"I guess I do."

The relationship tapered off after that. I had pushed things a little too fast, I think. But it was all for the better. I had always suspected Jane was a borderline alcoholic. Getting to know her better, I learned she was farther from the border than I had realized. I didn't need a rehabilitation project and she exhibited no signs of wishing to be rehabilitated. We still saw each other once in a while, but we never had sex again.

I resumed my search. The interlude with Jane had been a pleasant interruption, but I hadn't seriously thought it would work out. It did bolster my confidence a bit. My problem was where to look. I would have to get out more, meet more people. Jane not withstanding, women were not likely to randomly ring the doorbell or call me on the phone. I thought about joining a church but rejected the idea. I wasn't religious and didn't particularly want someone who was. I considered joining some hobby clubs, but most of my hobbies were male oriented. I thought about dating services, but I knew a guy who had worked for one. He assured me they were scams. I thought about the laundromat, but the cheapskate in me prevented me from going there when I had a perfectly good laundry room in the basement. I finally concluded that the most reasonable thing to do would be to network as much as possible and just give it some time.

The doorbell rang. It was Sharon. I'd forgotten it was Saturday morning. Sharon was our cleaning lady. She was also Meg's cousin, which was how she came to be our cleaning lady. She came every other Saturday. Meg had not been entirely satisfied with Sharon's work. (In fairness to Sharon, it was a complicated job. Like many old houses, there were lots of nooks and crannies and horizontal surfaces--moldings, plate rails, multi-tiered mantles, etc. But you'd think after a couple of years, she'd have it down.) We had considered getting someone else, but Sharon was a relative and needed the work and didn't charge much, so we kept her. Meg used to follow her around, cleaning the things Sharon missed. I wasn't interested in doing that. Sharon and I were going to have a talk.

"Sharon, we need to have a talk."

"Yes, sir." Sharon didn't usually call me sir, so I knew she was worried.

"Sharon, with Meg gone, I'm not sure I need a housekeeper anymore."

"Well, if that's what you want. But I thought you'd need me even more with her gone. The dust collects just as fast, and I really like coming here. Besides, whether you know it or not, you need someone to look after things."

"I'll tell you what. I'll keep you on, but we're going to do things a bit differently. I'm going to pay you twice what you've been getting..."

"Oh, thank you."

"Let me finish. There will be additional requirements. First of all, you're going to have to do a very good job. I'm not going to follow you around the way Meg did. Second, you're going to have to dress appropriately."

"Appropriate, like how?"

"The jeans and flip flops won't do. You're going to have to wear a proper maid's outfit."

"You mean like a uniform?"

"Stop interrupting and I'll tell you. But yes, I mean like a uniform. Black skirt, black blouse with white lace collar and cuffs, small white apron, little white lace hat thingy..."

"Oh, I know what you mean. Like an English maid outfit."

"English, French, whatever. Also, black stockings..."

"Black stockings?"

"I suppose you could wear white hose on occasion if you're feeling frivolous, but don't overdo it, and don't forget the heels."

"You want me to clean the house in high heels?"

"The outfit just doesn't work with any other kind of shoe. I suppose you could take them off after a while."

"I might have to make the blouse, but I can come up with all that stuff."

"You'll also have to wear a couple of accessories which I will provide, but we'll take care of that next time. Now go take care of the cleaning and I'll see you in two weeks."

Sharon scurried off to her task. I went out to check the mail... There was a catalog in the mail from Community University. Community University wasn't really a university. It was a collection of courses taught by volunteers in their homes or wherever else they could scrounge up a meeting place. The subject matter consisted of whatever anyone wanted to teach. I browsed through the catalog. It contained things as diverse as wine tasting, beer making, beginning auto repair, various computer courses, how to buy a stereo, gardening, home health care, and various occult and new age listings.

A course in palmistry caught my eye. I remembered some years ago reading about a guy who worked his way through college reading palms. When he started out, it was completely bogus. Although he had read some books on the subject, and did his readings as much by the book as he could, he didn't believe in it. He only did readings for women, pointing out that it was a fine opportunity to sit down with a young lady, hold her hand, look into her eyes, and tell her things she wanted to hear. He was as interested in meeting women as making money. Over time, however, he came to believe. So many women had told him how accurate his readings were he concluded that it actually worked. When subsequently relating this belief to a friend of his, the friend suggested he try telling his subjects the opposite of what he read in their palms and see what happened. It worked just as well, and he realized that his 'accuracy' had nothing to do with palmistry, but was a result of the subject's desire to believe.

When I was in high school, I had experimented briefly with hypnosis. I had been surprised how many girls had said 'yes' when I'd asked if they wanted to be hypnotized. I would get them to lie on a couch or something, have them look into my eyes and talk at them in a droning voice. The problem was that I couldn't actually hypnotize anyone. I'd read books on the subject but had never personally seen anyone hypnotized. I could never figure out if the whole concept was phony or I just wasn't doing it right. I would always cover my failure by telling the girl that she just couldn't be hypnotized. I'd try to phrase it in a way that made her feel as if she were special or had too powerful a personality to be hypnotized. That explanation was usually fairly well accepted and salvaged the situation from complete failure. It occurred to me that palmistry would not only perform the same function, it would not have the binary success/failure properties of hypnotism. A halfway convincing palm reading would be accepted as successful. Anyway, I thought it might be a way to meet some people and would also come in handy occasionally as an icebreaker.

I called the number listed in the catalog and signed up. The first of the three classes would be held in about 10 days.

The week passed uneventfully save that my business was more hectic than usual, but this was normal for summer.

Ann, my daughter, called Thursday evening.

"Hi, dad. How are you getting along?"

"I'm doing fine, honey. How are things with you and Ed?

"Great. We're thinking about changing the wedding date. December is so crazy. We thought it would make more sense to move it back to January or even February. It would be so much easier to organize things without all those other competing events."

"Sounds sensible. I was going to suggest something like that, but I didn't want to intrude on your plans. Let me know when."

"I will. Are you sure you're alright? You never call. I always have to call you."

"I'm doing OK. Things just seem busier and more complicated with your mother gone." This was a lie. I was spending entirely too much time brooding, but I wasn't about to burden Ann. I would solve my own problems.

"Well, let me hear from you once in a while. I worry about you."

"I promise I'll call more often."

"OK. Bye, daddy."

"Bye, sweetheart."

Saturday arrived, as did Sharon. She was decked out in her new uniform and anxious to show it to me.

"How do you like it?", she asked, turning in a circle. "I had a blouse I could use, but I had to sew the lace on it, and I made the hat out of an old doily. The only skirt I had was this black miniskirt, but I think it works pretty well with this outfit. I found the apron at a thrift store and I added some white gloves. I thought that would be classy. I'm glad you suggested a uniform since it sort of goes with the house..."

"It was not a suggestion."

"Well, yes, but anyway, it makes me feel different about the job, like it's more important and..."

I tuned her out. Sharon was a major chatterbox. I let her jabber on as I looked her over. I had always considered her rather plain, although she was not unattractive. The uniform set her off nicely. Her legs were particularly nice and I realized I'd never seen them before. I'd always seen her in jeans.

"Sharon," I interrupted.

"Yes, sir. It's funny. I want to call you 'sir' now instead of 'Bob'. It must be the uniform. It makes me feel differently about everything even though I've always called you 'Bob'. It's funny what clothes can do and I didn't even..."

"Sharon," I interrupted again.

"Yes, sir."

"Be still for a moment. I have an accessory to add to your outfit, then it's time for you to get to work. Now hold still," I said as I walked up to her. I fitted a black leather collar around her throat, buckled it, and locked it in place with a small padlock.

"What is that?", she asked, lifting her hands to her neck. "It's a collar! And it's LOCKED! Why do I have to wear that? And why is it locked? You don't own me and you shouldn't be locking me in a collar, even if..."

"Hush," I told her. "Now go and look at yourself in the entry hall mirror." I followed her to the entry hall and stood behind her. "Doesn't it look nice? Doesn't it go well with the uniform? Don't you think it adds something to the whole effect of the outfit?"

"Well, it is sort of cool looking, but it's sort of weird, too. I mean it's like I actually sort of like how it looks, but it makes me feel sort of strange, kind of embarrassed, but not exactly embarrassed really, more like subservient or something. And why is it locked?"

"Do you remember what I told you last time? You must do a very good job. You will wear the collar until the job is completed to my satisfaction. It's locked so that only I can remove it, which I will do only when I've inspected and approved your work."

"But being locked in it makes me feel so... so... It makes me feel like a little girl, like I'll be punished if I don't clean up my room. And I don't want you getting any ideas about me, either. I'm just here to clean the house."

"Just so. Perhaps you should begin. Just do a good job and you won't need to worry about being punished."

"Yes, sir."

Sharon plugged in her vacuum and began doing the main hall. I sat in the living room reading a book and watching her. She looked sexy in her new outfit and collar in a way she never had before. I didn't have any romantic interest in Sharon, but something made me want to fuck with her head. I suppose I should have been ashamed of myself, but I didn't think about it. I wasn't sure where I was going with this, but something in her or in me made me want to mess with her.

"All done," Sharon announced several hours later.

"Well, let's have a look." I wandered the house, followed by Sharon. In the dining room I pointed above the mantle. "See those cobwebs up there?"

"Sorry." She got a long-handled duster and cleared them away. We cruised the rest of the house, but I had no other complaints.

"In spite of the cobwebs, that's a better job than you've ever done before. We can probably forego the spanking this time."

"Spanking! What spanking?"

"Just teasing. Now, hold still while I get your collar off." I removed her collar, paid her, and saw her to the door. "See you in two weeks."

"OK. Bye."

The following Wednesday I went to the first meeting of the palm reading class. There were 10 students, three men and seven women. The other two guys were in their twenties, as were four of the women. The remaining three women were closer to my age. The instructor appeared to be in her early forties. She wore way too much jewelry and her outfit was not quite but almost a costume. She wore a long dress and had beads hanging from her hair. Although she was not wearing a gown and conical cap bedecked with mystical symbols, I suspected she might have something like that in her closet.

She began the class by telling us about the history of palm reading (most of which was highly speculative). I had resolved to keep my mouth shut and go with the flow, but when she got to the part about how palm readers had aided British intelligence in WWII by helping to identify German spies, it was too much.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Before you shatter all my illusions, I need to be sure I understand about this. I'd always thought the British had been the good guys, 'their finest hour' and all that. But you're telling us that while the Germans were putting people in concentration camps because they were Jews and Gypsies and the Americans were putting people in concentration camps because they were Japanese, the British were arresting and possibly executing people because of the creases on their palms?"

"They didn't use it on anybody who wasn't already suspected of being a spy. It just helped to confirm what they already knew."

"So if they hadn't used it, they probably would have shot the same people anyway."

"Probably, but it did help."

"If you say so."

As I said, I'd intended to keep quiet, but my outburst in the first fifteen minutes of class got me a reputation. I noticed the instructor (her name was Helen) tended to watch me during class to see how she was doing.

Helen handed out a stack of papers to everyone. The first had a diagram of the major lines and areas of the palm. Each line and area was discussed on a separate sheet. She guided us through the diagram and each sheet and generally did a good job of explaining everything. Then she thanked us for coming and said we'd go into a little more depth next time.

The week dragged on. Go to work, come home, go to work, come home again. I found myself looking forward to the next class on Wednesday.

Wednesday's class was a continuation of the previous week. Helen went into more detail on the various aspects of the palm. I learned more about my classmates. Two of the three women near my age were unmarried and of interest.

Rebecca was a widow with two children in high school. She was 39, reasonably self possessed and came to the class out of curiosity.

Karen was 37, recently divorced and floundering. Her son was going to turn 18 in the fall and wanted to join the navy rather than start his senior year of high school. She was here looking for answers. I thought she must be utterly devoid of resource to be looking here.

At the end of the class, Helen did a demonstration reading on one of the younger women and announced that next time we would all do readings on each other.

It was Saturday again and time for another visit from Sharon. She asked me if she was going to have to wear the collar again. As an answer I buckled it around her throat and snapped the lock in place. Sharon went about her chores. When she finished, I found several things that she missed. I had her correct them, cautioned her that she would have to be more conscientious in the future then removed her collar, paid her and sent her on her way.

On Wednesday, Helen gave us an hour or so of lecture, then handed out a slip of paper to each of us. The paper contained the name of the person whose palm we would read. I would read Karen's palm. Rebecca would read mine. This is exactly what I would have chosen if I had set it up. I noticed that the other single guy in the class had drawn single women and it occurred to me that maybe Helen had stacked the deck, indulging in a bit of match making.

I turned my chair to toward Karen's. "Give me your hand, Karen." Karen extended her arm and I laid her small hand across the palm of my left hand, hooking my thumb over her wrist. I smoothed her palm flat with my other hand, stroking and separating her fingers. This had nothing to do with viewing her palm. I was trying to set a tone, trying to make her feel I had charge of the situation and of her. I looked into her eyes. "Shall we begin?" She nodded.

I ran my index finger gently along her life line. "You see how your life line is deeply and firmly etched? That indicates an enthusiasm for life, an exuberance. But you see how your heart line is more lightly etched and spidery? This disparity between your life and heart line can cause you problems. Your enthusiasm can lead you astray. You've had false starts in your love life, and relationships have been erratic and troublesome. You enjoy sex but seldom find it as fulfilling as you would wish. I see similar things in your head line. It's branched and discontinuous. You don't always think problems all the way through and are sometimes sidetracked to the point where important issues are ignored. Your fate line, like your life line, is strong. This indicates an overall good outcome, but you won't achieve this fate without tribulation. You need some structure in your life, some boundaries set to keep you on course." I carried on like this for a while. I spoke earnestly and with conviction. I had locked my eyes on Karen's, glancing down occasionally at her palm, running my fingers over it to emphasize a point. I couldn't actually see the differences that I claimed to see in the lines but it didn't matter. This was a snow job. I could tell it was working. The eye contact, the physical contact, the tone of my voice, all combined to cast a spell on Karen. This was what she wanted, someone to take her firmly by the hand and tell her it would all be alright. I was a metaphor come to life.

"You read me like a book. How did you that? Can you really see all that in my palm?"

"I read what was there to see. I read what you revealed." This was true. I'd simply fed back to her what I already knew about her, embellished by some educated guesses and common sense. This had been easy, since I knew something about her. I wondered how well I would do on a cold read.

Now it was my turn. I turned to Rebecca and held out my hand. She took it and traced over the lines with her finger, commenting on their quality and significance.

"You're searching," she told me. "There have been changes in your life and you're drifting without having a clear direction in mind."

Rebecca was trying to do to me what I'd done to Karen, but she'd fucked up. She had neglected to set the mood, to take charge and gain my confidence. She was fishing, trying various things and hoping for a hit. Finally, she finished.

"Well, what did you think?"

"Not bad," I told her, "except I think you put too much effort into trying to read my palm and not enough into trying to read me."

"Interesting point. I'll have to try that."

Helen led us through a discussion of our first attempt at palm reading. I was generally considered to have done the best job. I found this amusing, since I'd been the only one who hadn't tried to read palms. I'd just faked it.

Time was up. Since this was the last class, we decided to continue the discussion at the corner bar over drinks and sandwiches. We trooped out. I was the last one out the door as Helen was locking up. She stopped me.

"That was a good job you did on Karen, but you weren't reading her palm, were you. You were bullshitting."

"So are you," I responded. "The difference is that I'm willing to admit it."

She seemed stung by the remark and I instantly regretted my flippancy. Helen was not a true charlatan. She honestly believed in what she was doing and taught a class every semester at no charge to help bring people to a greater understanding of themselves. The fact that I thought I could see through her did not make her intentions any less honorable. She was not deserving of my scorn.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

We spent several hours at the bar, discussing palmistry and anything else that came up. I had managed to sit next to Karen and maneuvered so that my knee rested against hers, but otherwise didn't push things. I discovered Rebecca and I had some business interests in common and we exchanged cards. Finally, I decided I'd better go while I could still drive. I said goodnight and as I got up to go Karen pushed a folded piece of paper into my hand. I unfolded it when I got to the car. It was a phone number.

I waited a couple days, then gave Karen a call. We set a date for dinner the following Friday. I picked her up at her house and met her son Daryl. He seemed like a nice kid, but I could see that his parents recent divorce and his mother's current lack of direction had left him confused. I could understand how he might find the structured environment of the navy attractive. We discussed him over dinner.

"I'm so afraid he'll quit school. He's just got to finish high school."

"No, he doesn't," I told her. "High school won't do anything for him the navy can't."

"But he needs his diploma."

"He can get a GED in the navy and get paid for it as well. He can learn a trade, earn money for college, and put some structure in his life. He'll come out a better person with a more mature approach to schooling. The only down side is that you'll be alone and that's what you're really afraid of. He's grown. It's time for him to go. Hanging on would be bad for both of you. Let him go with your blessing."

"Have you been reading my palm again? You're right. I know you're right. I just needed to hear it from someone else. It's so hard to let go."

"Just pointing out the obvious."

We discussed other things. Vic, her ex, was her second husband and not Daryl's biological father. I learned that her alimony and child support, paid by her first husband, would terminate on Daryl's eighteenth birthday. She had gotten the house, which was paid for, as part of the settlement and had a fairly good job, so while she had to watch her budget her financial situation was stable. Her divorce had been the result of Vic using her as a punching bag. This had been a problem off and on through their marriage, but on the last occasion her former husband had neglected to take Daryl into account. Daryl was now a rather large young man and had responded to the attack on his mother by beating his stepfather senseless then hurling his unconscious body off the front porch. Not long after, Vic had agreed to an uncontested divorce with favorable terms for Karen and Daryl.

"That's always been a problem for me. I always seem to be attracted to guys who are way too controlling. They're very charming at first, then after a while they beat the crap out of me."

"So now you're out with me. Aren't you worried about making the same mistake again?"

"Yes, a little. But I'm so afraid of being alone. I need to be with someone."

"That's exactly why you need to live alone for a while. Once you learn to be independent, you'll be attractive to men who value that."

"That's what's different about you. No one's ever encouraged me to be independent before. You don't seem to be the jealous type, just the same I think it turns you on to control women."

"Now who's reading whose palm? You're right, I enjoy controlling women in certain contexts, but knocking them around the room isn't control. That's loss of control. It would be embarrassing to be so inept. Women should be made to want to be controlled."

"Let's change the subject. You're frightening me and turning me on at the same time."

"Thanks for the compliment. Have you been to the art museum recently? There's a traveling exhibit of ancient Greek silver..."

After dinner we went walking and window shopping in the neighborhood around the restaurant. We sat for a while on a park bench and watched other people walk by. Eventually, I took her home.

"Would you like to come in for coffee?" Karen asked after I'd walked her to her door.

"Thank you, but not this time," I said, turning to leave. I was not going to make the same mistake I'd made with Jane. I was going for the longer term with Karen. Things would proceed slowly.

"Does that mean there'll be a next time?"

"I'll call you," I told her and departed. She was still standing in her doorway watching as I drove off.

I was awakened the next morning by the doorbell. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt and went downstairs.

"I'm sorry," said Sharon. "I'm a little earlier than usual. I didn't mean to wake you up. It's just that I thought it would be nice to get an early start and I didn't think it would hurt anything but if you want I could come back later although that would be a pain because I'd have to drive all the way home and back again and besides I'm here now and you're up so I hope it's alright if I..."

"It's OK, Sharon. It's OK. Spare me the explanation and just get on with it."

"Thanks. I'll get started." She headed off down the hall.

"Sharon, come back here."

"What? Oh, yeah. I forgot," she said as I buckled her collar in place.

"I'll tell you what, Sharon. From now on, you're only allowed to be in the entry hall without your collar. You're not allowed in the main part of the house until you've been locked in your collar."

"OK, if that's what you want. It's your house and..."

"Yes, it is," I interrupted. "Now get on with it, if you please."

After she finished, we inspected her work. I found about seven things she missed.

"Sharon, this is not acceptable work. If one of my guys at the office did a job like this, he wouldn't be one of my guys anymore."

"I'm sorry. I'll do better next time."

"I will expect you to, but I think some sanctions are in order this time."

"What do you mean by sanctions?"

"What did your mother do when you misbehaved?"

"Usually I'd get grounded."

"Not practical at the moment. How about when you were younger?"

"Sometimes I'd have to stand in the corner. If I was really bad I'd get spanked."

"We won't consider you to have been really bad on this occasion, so this time you'll only have to stand in the corner." I led her to a spot wall in the main hall and positioned her against the wall. "Now, feet together, stand straight. Good, now press your nose against this spot on the wall," I said, indicating a spot in the wallpaper pattern. "Now clasp your hands behind you, pretend they're tied together. Good."

"This isn't fair. I'll clean the spots I missed, but I shouldn't have to..."

"Sharon, you don't have to come here if you don't want to. But if you do choose to come here, I expect you to do a proper job and if you don't I expect you to accept correction without complaint. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. You are to keep your nose on that spot and not move. I'll return for you in an hour..."

"An hour!"

"Yes, an hour. Now keep quiet. You are not to speak again until your time is up. I want you to spend this time thinking about how you can do a better job, then you can go back and clean the spots you missed." I went to the living room and sat down to read. Sharon wasn't turned so she could see me, but she could hear where I had gone. She didn't know that I had sat down where I could see her in a mirror. After about 10 minutes, she unclasped her hands, stepped away from the wall, scratched her nose, then returned to her previous position. I walked up behind her.

"Sharon, you're not doing a very good job of pretending your hands are tied," I said, cinching a length of rope around her gloved wrists, "so I guess we're going to have to resort to the real thing. Also, since you decided to take your nose off the wall, we're going to add fifteen minutes to your time here." Sharon groaned but didn't otherwise reply. She behaved herself for the rest of her penalty period. I untied her wrists and sent her off to clean the things she'd missed, then paid her and sent her home.

I still wasn't sure where I was headed with Sharon but two things were obvious. I was becoming more turned on by her and this meant events were likely to escalate.

On Tuesday, I got a call from Rebecca. I owned a small delivery company. We ran a few regular routes, but a lot of our business came from regular customers who needed only occasional pick up or delivery. We ran a number of econoline vans and a couple of box vans with lift gates. Rebecca needed a box picked up at the airport. I ran the call myself. I did this whenever possible with new customers. You can tell a lot more about a customer's needs by actually going to their place than you can by talking to them on the phone.

I wheeled the box into Rebecca's office and closed the door. When I turned back around, Rebecca was standing beside her desk with her skirt pulled up to her chin.

"Like what you see?"

Now here was a woman who knew what she wanted. Unfortunately, she was a bit fuzzy on how to go about getting it. "I like what I'm looking at, but I don't like what I see."


I walked over to Rebecca and pushed her gently down into her chair, then perched on the edge of her desk in front of her. "You're a beautiful woman, Rebecca, I like looking at you. But there's a lot wrong with this picture. First of all, if you go around pulling your skirt up in front of strange men, and I qualify, I assume you're ready to accept the consequences of your actions, whatever they may be." I reached down and grasped her ankle, removing her shoe. Then I slipped off her other shoe.

"And whatever might that be?" she asked coyly.

"You're about to find out. Stand," I said, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. I positioned her in front of her desk and put my hand in the middle of her back, pressing gently forward. "Bend over the desk, Rebecca." I grabbed her wrists and pulled them to the far side of the desk, wrapping her fingers over the edge. "Don't let go," I told her. I pulled her skirt up around her waist.

"Not here, someone might come in. Let's go someplace."

"I don't think it would be an altogether bad thing if someone was to come in and see us."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going to do to you what you would do to your daughter if she behaved like that." I picked up an eighteen-inch ruler from the chalkboard behind her desk. "I'm going to count to ten. If you release your grip on the desk before I finish, we'll have to start over." The ruler landed on her butt with a loud crack. Rebecca shrieked and struggled to get up, but my hand was firmly planted in the middle of her back.

"Stop it! Stop. I'll scream."

"So scream. As I said, an audience might not be a bad thing. Now hold still." I gave her an even harder blow. Her panties and panty hose offered little protection against the heavy wooden ruler. Her breath caught in her throat on the third blow. I quickly delivered a fourth and fifth.

"Rebecca, put your hands back in position. You still have ten strokes to go. I don't think you're going to want me to have to start over again, so hang on tight." She meekly complied. The fight was gone out of her. I gave her the rest of her spanking. Her knuckles were white, her breath came in gasps, but she endured and managed to keep her hands in position. I let her up and helped her to her feet. Tears were streaming down her face. I dried them with my handkerchief, then kissed her on the forehead. Then I helped her into her seat. "Gently," I told her, "gently, you're going to be sore for a while." I shoved my paperwork in front of her, had her sign it, and departed.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / BDSM / MaleDom / Spanking /