Time: 1108
Weather: Fuck it.
Nature: Unimportant.
Mood: Deeply pleased.
Target: Target is beautiful. Target is mine. Target is loved.
POA: No fucking clue.
I suppose I could attempt to explain.
Though elaborating does not come naturally to me.
I have found much to admire about David over the past two and a half years.
And it matters very little to me if others understand.
I realize he is loud. Defiant. On occasion, illogical and rude.
And far more energetic than anyone his age has a right to be.
Back in my day, life began beating you down the instant you entered adulthood. If not before. Your only option was to gird up your loins, take a couple of shots of strong whiskey, and embrace destiny’s bleak offerings.
I do not understand this modern breed of optimistic, effusive young men who believe they will alter life’s eternal injustice with a Twitter hashtag. Who believe that words are any match for deeds.
Perhaps I am envious.
Because I see in David a sort of maturity I lack. One that comes from knowing and being sure of yourself. From loving the people around you loudly and defiantly. From being unafraid of how people will look at you if you state your feelings boldly, trust openly, and let yourself grow and learn.
I do not squeal over Oscar dresses. I do not cry when I am sad, or when I am happy. I assume that others are, for the most part, incompetent and untrustworthy.
And maybe this is because I am not very brave at all.
David is always nervous before a spanking. Excited, but nervous. And this may be what I appreciate so much about the act: that there is all this to-do over one person slapping another’s ass. It makes me nervous at times too—though I’ve never told him that. Because I want so much for him to enjoy it.
“I would like you,” I told him calmly, “to go to that white ash. Bend over. Place your hands on the trunk. Stick your ass out.”
He looked at me—that look I have never quite understood. Amused and doleful at once, like he is sharing both a wicked secret and a quiet plea.
I walked with him to the ash.
“Let’s take off those ridiculous pants.”
“Please,” he agreed.
Even with the fly open, the pants were too tight for me to slide them past his hips. I clamped my tongue between my teeth. Exerted more effort. He shook with quiet laughter.
“Suck it in,” I ordered.
He did, and I yanked them down.
Next I had him lift each leg so I could remove his shoes and the pants. Finally he stood there in just a pair of white briefs and black socks. Hands pressed so hard against the tree his knuckles were pale.
I touched the band of chafed skin around his waist.
“They weren’t good pants,” he whispered.
“No. But your ass did look amazing in them.”
“My spleen is crushed. Go easy on me.”
I touched my palm to the seat of his briefs. Felt his momentary wince. I tugged the waistband with one finger.
He reached back and put a hand over his ass. I snorted. Took his wrist and guided his hand back to the trunk. I placed his palm against the rough bark, put my hand over his, and we stayed like that a moment. His hand small, soft, and warm under mine.
I leaned forward until my lips were nearly touching his neck. “I love you.”
His shoulders tightened. “Don’t. You know I cry over everything.”
“I love you.”
“Stop. I can’t—I can’t take a spanking if I’m—”
I slapped the seat of his briefs lightly. “Can’t you?”
“D—” His voice was rough.
I kept my other hand over his. Swatted him a couple more times, just as gently, the act as familiar to both of us as getting out of bed in the morning. He ducked his head and tensed at each swat. But I never hit any harder.
The game was usually like so: He fought. I growled. He gave up. I won.
But this time was different.
He was crying softly. I paused every couple of swats to kiss his neck again and tell him I loved him.
The words did not seem trite. Or unnecessary.
He wiped his cheek on his outstretched arm.
I paused and tugged down his underwear. Pressed the small of his back to make him stick his ass out. Ran a thumb over the pink skin. Smacked him once. Twice. Then he straightened without permission, turned, and buried his face silently against my shoulder.
I placed my arms around him. What a good man. What a moment.
He took a breath. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
I led him back to the stump. Sat and pulled him onto my lap.
He was not hard. There was something oddly touching about the sight of his cock soft and resting on a patch of brown hair. I lifted his hips and pulled his underwear up to cover him. Left my hand on his lower abdomen, feeling the contracting and releasing of muscles, the warmth of his skin. The smooth trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his briefs.
He shifted, trying to get closer. I remained stoic as I took a bony elbow to the gut. He leaned against me. “I’m so stupid. I get so emotional—”
“Good.”
“I’m a grown man. I shouldn’t—”
“It’s one of the many things I love about you.”
“What happened to you? Did you have a heart-to-heart with a magical talking badger who taught you to express your feelings?”
“Something like that.”
His jaw dropped. “Did you see an eagle? Is that what changed you?”
I shook my head. “I was not so fortunate.”
He tilted his face toward the sky. “It’s about to rain.”
“A little rain never hurt anyone.”
He butted my chest gently. “Maybe not you, beast. But I’m delicate.”
“You were hardy today.”
“Then can my reward be not getting rained on?”
“Yes.” I stood, pulling him up with me. “Your pants are by the tree.”
“I can’t put those on again. My innards are bruised. I’ll have to walk back like this.”
I paused. Then I toed off my boots. Undid my pod belt. My regular belt. And finally my fly.
I removed my pants.
Handed them to him. “Here.”
He looked at the pants, then up at me. “You’re . . . giving me your pants?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Put them on. The rain is coming.”
He hesitated, then stepped into them. They were many sizes too large.
He held the waistband away from his body like an “after” weight loss image. “Uhhh . . .” He laughed.
The belt was unlikely to be of much help, designed as it was for men more ample than he.
I offered him the pod belt. “It is fully adjustable.”
He strapped it around his waist and pulled it tight enough to hold the pants up. “This is beautiful. Like when a guy gives a girl his jacket. Except it’s pants.” He shoved his feet into his shoes.
I pulled my boots back on. Picked up his ridiculous camo pants. “Come on, you.”
I started toward camp just as the rain began rustling through the leaves. I held out an arm. He stepped under it, and I settled it around his shoulders.
It did feel strange, to be walking around outside in my underwear.
But in all the time we had been together, he had always been more willing to be naked than I.
It felt good to level the playing field.