

    


                         ATONEMENT

                            by

                        C. Lakewood



    It was a beautiful spring day, made even nicer by the fact 
that I'd just dropped off my last set of grades.  I was looking 
forward to some Chinese take-out, a beer or two, and the Cubs 
game on TV -- as a good beginning to three months' vacation.  
Sophie, my wife, who was principal of a different high school, 
had finished up yesterday and was doing brunch today with some 
chums. 

    When I got home, though, I was greeted by a series of 
surprises.  First, Sophie was already home; she'd apparently 
parked in the garage, rather than leaving her car out for me 
to put away as she usually does.  (I love my wife.  She can be 
wonderfully passionate, witty, and capable...but I'd be less 
than honest if I didn't add that she was often -- maybe more 
often than not -- arrogant, lazy, manipulative, thoughtless, 
and self-absorbed.  I suspect that all these traits -- good 
and bad -- derive at least in part from her Gallic heritage.  
We've been married for seven years -- one wonderful, one good, 
two or three fair, and the rest spiraling downward.  At one 
time we were arguing a lot, but I'd learned just to shut up 
and give her what she wanted: her own way.  Still, I wondered 
how much longer I could put up with it.)  

    The second surprise this afternoon was that she was huddled, 
pale and trembling, on the couch.

    "I'm in BIG trouble," she nervously blurted out.  That was 
the third surprise.  The story came out hesitantly from her 
normally highly articulate lips.  It seems that she'd had a 
number of champagne cocktails with brunch, and, rather tipsy, 
she'd broadsided a neighbor's parked car, then panicked, driven 
off (about 35 yards), and hidden her car in our garage.   

    But the neighbor, Mr. Ishimoto, had witnessed the whole thing 
and, within moments, had showed up at our front door.  He had a 
tape recorder and a cell phone with him and demanded that either 
she record a full confession (in which case the matter might be 
handled "discreetly"), or he would call the police.... 

    "And...oh, god...I'd be booked on a DUI hit-and-run and spend 
the night in jail.  There'd be a trial...publicity...notoriety....  
The cost'd be thousands in fines and legal fees and insurance 
premiums....  I'd probably lose my job...AND my license...for who 
knows how long....  So I confessed!  And he wants to see you...to 
get your permission, I guess...before he tells me what I have to 
do...."

    I had a nodding acquaintance with old man Ishimoto, and he'd 
always seemed so polite and Buddha-like.  It was hard to imagine 
him browbeating my normally assertive and self-assured wife.  
(Truth be told, perhaps I was a bit envious.)  In any case, I put 
my duck-and-mushrooms in the fridge, sighed, and walked down the 
street to talk things over with my elderly neighbor.

		******************************  

    A couple of hours later, I walked back more slowly, my stomach 
full of Kobe beef and 12-year-old single malt, and my mind full of 
interesting ideas.  I was carrying a large, flat cardboard box. 

    I explained things to Sophie in stages: she was to strip naked, 
put on the outfit that Mr. Ishimoto was supplying, and walk down to 
his house to atone for her irresponsibility.  She had half an hour 
to comply. 

    She was surprised and annoyed that the box held a classic 
Japanese schoolgirl's uniform: white sailor blouse with dark blue 
trim, dark blue neckerchief, and dark blue skirt.  It had belonged 
to Ishimoto's daughter, some years ago.  He didn't have the shoes 
or socks, so he included a pair of woven straw flip-flops (which 
he called "zori").  There was also a tiny pair of cream-colored 
bikini panties (but no bra).

    Sophie's customary arrogance was beginning to return, and 
she snorted with disdain at the prospect of having to wear 
those clothes.  But, when I reminded her of the alternative, 
she gathered up the uniform and flounced off to the bedroom to 
change. 

		******************************

    Not quite fifteen minutes later, she re-emerged, somewhat 
nervously.  Sophie is 31 years old, 5'2", about 114 lbs., and 
32A-24-33.  Her torso must have been about the same size as the 
daughter's, for the middy-blouse fit well enough, but Sophie's 
legs were obviously the longer by 2 or 3 inches, because the skirt 
was scandalously short.  It was so short, in fact, that I had no 
trouble discovering that she was wearing a pair of her own panties. 
    
    Mr. Ishimoto's house was not far, and there was nobody about, 
but Sophie was very self-conscious -- especially since we were 
made to wait several minutes on the tiny front porch.  Moreover, 
when he did open his door, he made her curtsey...several times, 
until she did it to his satisfaction.  Only then did he let us 
enter. 

    Ishimoto was a man of relatively indeterminate age -- 50s, I 
guessed -- stocky, well-groomed, perhaps 5'6", and dressed for 
the occasion in a scarlet and gold kimono.  He was prototypically 
inscrutable.  His face didn't change when he saw the panties 
Sophie was wearing, but...well, the shift in ambiance was 
practically palpable.

    He nodded to me and said, "Your pardon."  Then he said to her, 
"You will take off that offensive garment immediately."

    (Actually, he said something almost like, "You wirr take off 
that offensive garment immediat'ry."  But his accent was so slight, 
and I became accustomed to it so quickly, that I'm not going to 
try to reproduce it here.  The reader may infer it -- or not, as 
he prefers.) 

    She knew exactly what garment he was referring to.  I was 
astonished that she didn't give him an argument, but, after 
the briefest hesitation, blushingly slipped her panties off 
and held them out to him.

    Adroitly, he grasped her extended wrist and sat down on the 
sofa, pulling her across his lap in the process.  He spanked her 
bare bottom vigorously for two or three minutes, during which 
time she kept herself under surprisingly good control.  He 
glanced at me, and I nodded.  Then, abruptly, he skewered her 
cunt with two thick fingers.  (He seemed to have no trouble at 
all, suggesting that her juices were already flowing.)  Sophie 
gasped and closed her thighs...too late.  He withdrew his hand 
and held it up, displaying his glistening, gooey fingers.  Then 
he pushed her to her feet.  Red-faced amd sniffling, she again 
offered him the contraband panties.

    He shook his head.  "I do not want them.  Carry them in your 
hand back to your house and leave them there.  Shave your crotch 
bare.  Carry the panties that you were supposed to wear back here.  
You have 15 minutes.  I advise you not to be late."  He looked at 
his watch.  "Go!"

    She didn't waste time.  I tossed her the keys, and she went.

		******************************

    Eighteen minutes later, as Ishimoto and I sat drinking and 
chatting about what was to come, there was a timid knock on the 
door.

    He let her in and took his daughter's panties from her hand.  
"You are late.  Take off your clothes."

    "All?" she quavered.

    "Of course, you silly girl."            

    When she was naked, he made her stand in the middle of the 
room, legs apart and hands on head, elbows back and tits thrust
forward.  She was shivering and sweating, and her nipples were 
as stiff and erect as I could ever remember them.  The redness 
from the hand-spanking had faded, I noticed in passing, but, as 
she slowly turned in a circle, my gaze was caught and held by 
her now smooth and hairless cunt.

    When Ishimoto caressed her crotch, she moaned and almost 
collapsed.  "Please, sir...," she said, softly.

    "Ah, so you like this," he said, probing her.

    "N-nooo, please...sir...."

    "Earlier today, you promised not only to obey orders, but also 
to tell the truth.  So...do you like this?"
 
    "Y-yes...sir," she whispered.

    He took his hand away, and she whimpered.  "You are a bad 
little girl, and we are not here to pleasure you, but to punish 
you," he reminded her.  "Bend over and touch toes.  Keep your 
feet apart.  Yes."

    Opening an ornate, black-lacquered cabinet that turned out to 
be filled with a variety of interesting implements, he selected 
what appeared to be a whisk broom made of horsehair.  He nodded 
in my direction again and began delivering a flurry of very light, 
stinging strokes all over -- and between -- Sophie's buttocks, just 
by flicking his wrist.  When her butt was a pleasant pink all over, 
he paused a moment to survey his work.  I was impressed.

    It was just a warm-up for the real caning yet to come, but....  
Her writhing butt-cheeks were parted, and her asshole was twitching 
-- as if asking for something more.  She was whimpering softly 
(more in lust than in pain) and rubbing her thighs together (as if 
to soothe the terrible itch that was growing there.  I'd seen her 
"in heat" often in the past (though not lately), and I knew exactly 
what it was that she craved now.  Well, it wouldn't hurt her to 
wait a while.  I had an epic hard-on myself...but I was more used 
to frustration and denial.

    After a bit, he placed a rawhide chew-toy between her teeth 
and warned her not to drop it.  (She nodded.)  Then he picked 
up a slender cane, flexed the supple rattan to an astonishing 
degree, positioned himself carefully, and began laying a series 
of stripes, meticulously timed and perfectly placed, across 
Sophie's rounded ass.

    Up to that point, it had all been, essentially, foreplay.  
But, when the cane started falling on her upturned rump, it 
became PAIN.  Sophie uttered a sound that was half-whinny 
and half-snort (almost losing her chew-toy), bent her knees, 
arched her back, and dug into the carpet with her bare toes.

    I had a momentary impulse to call a halt to it and was in 
the process of rising from my chair....  But then I remembered 
an occasion, early in our engagement, when I was admiring a pair 
of earrings in a shop window, remarking that unfortunately they 
were for pierced ears -- and her ears weren't.  She made some 
sort of disparaging comment (which was somewhat unusual for her 
in those days).  When I asked her about that later, she told me 
that her mother was "something of a feminist" who looked upon 
pierced ears as a mark of female submission to men.  Back then, 
I regarded that notion as merely "quaint" -- not as food for 
thought.

    Now, however....

    Perhaps learning what submission was really all about might 
improve her character...or at least her disposition.  So once 
again I gave thanks that her mother was determined not to budge 
from the "très sympathique" environment of French Canada, leaned 
back, took another sip of Scotch, and watched the psychodrama 
unfold.

		******************************   

    "Stand up," he finally said.  "Legs apart.  Hands on head, as 
before."  He took back the chew-toy, which had served its purpose 
admirably.

    "Please, s-sir....  I'm sor-ree!  Have-have m-mercy...."  

    (Were there tears in her eyes?)

    "Admitting your faults is the first step in atonement," he 
said, his fingers casually stroking her flanks, tits, and belly.  
(She flinched, but only a bit.)  "So confess that you are a bad, 
irresponsible little girl." 

    "No!  I'm an ADULT!  And you're just a dirty old Ja-"  (She was 
uncommonly sensitive about her youthful appearance.)

    He shrugged and stepped toward the telephone.  "So you choose 
the police, after all...."

    "Oh, no!  No, wait...please...sir.  I-I will admit it: I'm a 
bad...irresponsible...little girl!" 

    "Who needs to be taught her proper place."

    She hesitated, and he took another step toward the phone.  It 
was enough to finish off the rebellion and make her capitulate.   

    "I'm a bad, irresponsible little girl who needs to be taught 
her-her p-proper place...sir."

    "Ask me to teach you."

    "Please, sir....  Please t-teach me...my proper puh-lace."

    "And you will be obedient?"

    "I'll be obedient....  Anything you say!"

    "I should not have to point out that your husband has been very 
patient throughout your punishment -- thus far -- but is in need of 
relief.  Go kneel at his feet....  Yes.  Now, open his trousers and 
take out his erection.  Yes.  Well...go ahead.  Take care of him -- 
and do it slowly and lovingly...."

    I found this sudden shift in focus somewhat unsettling.  Up to 
this point, I had been primarily a passive member of the audience.  
Now I was spotlighted center stage.  Though I'd known it was 
coming, it still put me off, a little.

    And Sophie was even less happy with this latest development.  
She was prepared to tolerate vaginal intercourse (as long as it 
didn't happen too frequently), but she didn't like giving blow 
jobs.  (She would do it on special occasions, but, of course, 
absolutely refused even to contemplate being butt-fucked).  She 
claimed that giving head was perverted and demeaning (besides 
making her gag).  As a result, she appeared both surprised and 
disgusted at this turn of events.  Despite her distaste, however, 
she took out my oozing cock and went to work on it with her lips 
and tongue.

    She even moaned some.

    I was adjusting nicely to this unaccustomed treat when I saw 
that Ishimoto was kneeling beside Sophie, with a thumb up her 
asshole and a couple of fingers up her cunt.  And she seemed to 
be getting off on it.

    I certainly had nothing against threesomes -- though those 
I fantasized about usually involved me, Halle Berry, and Heidi  
Klum.  (Or, if I were in the mood for classics, it would be me, 
Ingrid Bergman, and Leslie Caron.)  I had never envisioned me, 
Sophie, and another man -- ANY other man. 

    But Sophie was soaring to new heights -- mewling and wriggling 
and playing arpeggios on my dick -- so I was able to adjust to this 
therapy, too.  I knew, however, that the next part would be more 
intense and harder to accept. 

    Ironically, the thought of what that next part would include 
pushed me over the edge, and I filled her mouth with cum...which 
she swallowed.  (Another first!)

    When she had completely drained me (and licked her lips!), 
Ishimoto extracted his fingers, got to his feet, and told 
Sophie to stand in the corner, with her nose against the wall, 
while he washed his hands.

    She went, meekly and silently, and stood as directed.  I 
couldn't see her hands, which she was holding at her crotch, 
but I suspected that they weren't entirely idle.
    
    He returned a few minutes later, and I knew things were about 
to climax (as it were).
   
    He took up a position in the middle of the room and called her 
to him.  "Now you may thank me properly."  He pushed her down onto 
her knees and opened the front of his kimono to disclose short, 
rather bowed legs, a hairy belly, and, in between, an erection of 
decent size -- definitely shorter than average, but maybe a bit 
thicker.  To my surprise, she sighed and began to suck him off, 
going at it passionately, trying to bring him off quickly.  At the 
same time, however, he was consciously holding his orgasm at bay, 
and it was almost twenty minutes before he, too, ejaculated into 
her mouth.  It was clear that, whatever he might have lacked in 
size, he more than made up for in quantity of cum.  But she managed 
to swallow it all...with difficulty.

    (I won't say it was easy watching my wife give another man a 
blow job...but it wasn't as hard as I'd anticipated.) 

    Finally, he let her stand up.  "Say 'thank you' and 
bow...low," he ordered.

    She obeyed, without hesitation.

    Afterward, she was allowed to put on the school uniform again 
(minus panties, of course) and was sent back to her corner while 
Ishimoto and I finished our drinks.

    When it was at last time to go, I would have been a lot more 
reluctant if I hadn't known there would be sequels...many sequels.
 
		****************************** 

    She was very quiet as we were walking home, and I took that 
opportunity to explain that, to repay Ishimoto for the repairs, 
she was, in effect, indentured to him for 10 hours a week...for 
the next 14 months. 

    She seemed to be paying only minimal attention to what I was 
saying and, at the same time, thinking over something complex 
with the rest of her brain.
  
    At length, when we were back inside our own house, all of a 
sudden the words came tumbling out of her. 

    "I feel...violated...a-and...and thrilled.  Losing control and 
being so humiliated a-and having to...submit to him....  HIM!  And 
-- oh, god! -- having to KEEP doing it over and over, until I'd 
properly atoned...for being such a b-bad girl....  It's so strange, 
but I know now that it's what I've needed for a long time.  My 
damn job...having to be so infallible all the time...the stress 
just accumulates, and I've never been able to free myself of it.  
I can forget it, once in a while, temporarily...but it always comes 
roaring back...too soon.  Alcohol helps...some...and tranquilizers, 
but I've been afraid of going very far down THAT road.  But, then 
today...well, I've been relieved of a burden that was crushing me.  
I feel...free.  I find that, for me, submission...is actually, 
well, liberating...." 

    She smiled up at me wanly.  "I hope you can understand that."

    "Yes," I said.  "I do."

    "Good," she grinned.  "Because, besides setting me free, it's 
also made me unbelievably horny...."

    She pulled off the middy-blouse, dropped her skirt, and began 
herding me breathlessly toward the bedroom.

		******************************

    "Maybe," I thought, as I lay in the cool quiet of the pre-dawn, 
Sophie, satiated at last, sleeping beside me.  Maybe it was as 
simple as that.  Maybe the death spiral of our marriage was the 
result of some sort of Accumulated Stress Syndrome ('ASS' -- ha!), 
and things will return to the way they were when we were newlyweds. 
But I would be reluctant to bet money on it.  She IS her mother's 
daughter after all (Zut alors!), so a happy ending might not be in 
the cards....

    But I can hope.   
