## Archive-name: Behind.Brown.Eyes

From: nramsey@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Cory L. Kerens)

Subject: Story: Behind Brown Eyes

Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories

This is fiction.

Behind Brown Eyes

His name is Andrew, and he goes by the whole thing; this man is not an "Andy." He asked me, in a rather polite and formal way, if I would like to play. He is a very controlled sort of person, and rather grave, but with an incredibly sharp mind. I did not know him very well but wanted to know him better -- yes, I wanted to play. I wanted to see who was under the controlled, solemn exterior, and play seemed like the best way.

"Top or bottom," he asked, a gracious host. Too gracious for a young American -- his manners suddenly reminded me of the old-world charm said to be characteristic of Dracula. I wondered if he had cultivated it deliberately. Probably.

"Let's wrestle for it," I said.

His hard-to-read brown eyes brightened slightly, and I was pleased -- I wanted him to be excited by the challenge. "I hope I win this," I thought to myself, "since it looks like I'm thinking toppishly already." We negotiated the rules and agreed that the winner would be whoever could hold the other down for a count of ten. Loser was to be spanked by the winner; further activities could be negotiated at that time.

Andrew took a wooden paddle from his closet and placed it ready-to-hand on the couch, flashing me a sudden grin before returning to his usual gravity. "I know where everything is, and it would be unfair to take advantage of that, so I am placing an implement here where we can both locate it."

"You got class, boy," I said, deliberately being less courtly and polite than he.

"Boy?" His voice was cool. "I am not a boy. And if I win, you'll pay for that." Hmm. That wouldn't be such a bad deal, either.

We stripped and knelt on the carpet, facing each other, with our hands on each other's shoulders. I am slightly taller than he is and weigh much more, but he had the testosterone advantage; it would likely be a fairly even match. I set the alarm on my watch to sound as the starter and giggled nervously while we waited for it to beep.

He flashed me another grin. "Nervous?"

"No," I teased, "I'm laughing at the thought of what I'll do to you when I win."

He raised an eyebrow and seemed about to say something when the alarm went off. Instead of trying to push him over, as he expected, I fell backwards, pulling him on top of me, then used the advantage of the surprise to quickly roll over on top of him. Being on top of him was exciting, but I didn't get to stay there long enough even to begin counting, as he rolled us both over. Damn. He was skinny but stronger than he looked. Must be all that whip practice, develops the shoulders.

He held me down long enough to say "One," and I realized that being underneath was just as exciting as being on top. Andrew just didn't have the weight to hold me down if I didn't want to be held, though, and I managed to roll both of us onto our sides. We struggled on our sides for quite some time, neither of us quite managing to overturn the other. (If I'm going to play these sorts of games, I really should get more exercise.) Finally, thinking of elephants and pianos and other heavy things, I managed to get on top of him. Instead of trying to pin him with strength, I simply sat on his chest. He thrashed around a bit but didn't manage to unseat me as I counted rapidly to ten. He flashed me another of his infrequent grins at "ten," and I wondered whether he had lost on purpose or whether he were simply as gracious in defeat as he was at all other times. Damn, but I wanted to shake this man's composure. Well, now was my chance.

I sat on his chest a moment longer, staring into his eyes, then stood up and offered him my hand. I pulled him to his feet and escorted him to the couch. I sat down and gestured towards my lap. "You know what to do." He flushed slightly; he had very pale skin that made the slightest change of color easy to see. I was deliberately not giving explicit orders. Explicit orders remove all responsibility from a bottom and enable hir to deny that sie has anything to do with what's happening to hir. Although I did not know this man very well, I suspected that accepting responsibility for bottoming would be harder for him than simply being ordered about, and I wanted it to be hard for him. I did not glare or feign impatience as I waited for him to settle himself across my lap; even those little excuses would be denied him. I sat calmly, looking at him, and he nodded his head once, then draped himself across my lap.

He had a small ass, very pale, with the impossibly smooth skin of the very young. I caressed it gently, preparing him for what was coming. My first smack was almost a caress, it was so gentle, and my next was just as light. I hit him in a rhythm, building up very slowly. My unstated goal was to open this man up, and from what little I knew of him, I believed that harsh topping, although it opens some people, would only close this man up further. I suspected that he was used to resisting harshness with strength; if I wanted into him it would have to be by another means.

I sang lullabyes in my head in order to keep the slow rhythm constant. Although I am substantially older than he is, I do not feel motherly towards Andrew; I chose lullabyes simply because they are very slow, very rhythmic songs. I nearly laughed at the thought of how surprised he'd be if he knew I was singing him lullabyes internally, but I managed to supress it. I didn't want him to think that I was laughing at him; that would only cause him to put the armor back on.

His ass began to turn a delicate pink from my gentle blows, and I decided he was warmed up enough to take slightly harder slaps. I hit him harder, but still in the same slow rhythm, giving him plenty of time to feel each blow before the next one hit. Slowly, very slowly, I built up. As my blows got stronger, he began to sigh at every blow, my first indication that I was having any effect on anything other than his pretty pale skin. I resisted the temptation to push at this point. I wanted him to relax into this spanking, to flow with it. I would get harder in due time.

As I continued spanking, I decided that letting him hear the internal lullabye might not be such a bad thing. I can't carry a tune in a bucket, but he probably wasn't in any condition to notice by this point. Very softly, I began singing to him. "Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird." As I began the lullabye, I again escalated the intensity of my blows. I was now hitting him fairly hard. "And if (whap) that mocking bird (whap) don't sing, Mama's (whap) gonna buy you a diamond (whap) ring."

Next verse, still singing very softly, but hitting even harder. "And if (whap) that diamond ring (whap) turns brass, Mama's (whap) gonna buy you a looking (whap) glass." The sighs changed to moans, and I wished that I had a better view of his face. I wondered what was in those hard-to-read brown eyes right now.

I sang all the verses I could remember, hitting him slightly harder with each verse. By the time I had finished the song, I was hitting him as hard as I could, and I decided that it was time to switch to the paddle that he had so thoughtfully provided. I figured it would be a bad idea to take him unawares -- make him tense up -- so I told him what I was going to do. "Darlin', I'm going to switch to the paddle now."

I picked it up and hit him with it, not as hard as I'd been hitting him with my hand, but still fairly hard, and spoke to him again. "You doing okay, darlin'?" He nodded, and I continued my ministrations. After a few strokes with the paddle, he changed from moaning to outright crying. It sounded like crying he needed to do, so I continued to paddle him in the same slow but hard fashion. After a little while, he choked out a few words. "It's the damned contrast." "The contrast, darlin'?" I thought I knew what he meant, but I wanted to be sure. "The contrast between how gentle your voice is and how hard you're spanking me." "Nobody's mad at you, darling," I said in my gentlest voice, as I hit him as hard as I could. "I'm not mad at all; I just like to spank you." He called safeword at that point, and clung to me, crying. I petted his head and let him cry against my breast, hoping he would trust me enough one day to verbalize the pain he was now sharing with me.

Copyright 1992 by Cory Lea Kerens.

Electronic distribution is permitted, but hard copies are limited to single copies for personal use only.

"Shared joy is multiplied; shared pain is divided." - Spider Robinson You can contact me anonymously at wi.4958@wizvax.methuen.ma.us

Last modified (10/09/96 12:14:14) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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