tania

Blade in Red (part 10) 10/23/07 09:18 The hotel Metropol is a tall, square building from communist times; to deviate the mind from its socialistic severity it has been painted in different shades and shapes of green; at night that’s of course not seen, it stands there like a dark tower of depressive massiveness. Unless, like tonight a ball is taken place; in that case the entire ground floor is alight and lively making the rest of the building seem like standing in free air; when the ball momentarily becomes specifically eager the association is a huge, dark spaceship landing. This evening, apart from the ground floor there was light in only one window; at the fifth floor. Since no other building was this tall, the curtains were not drawn. In the room behind the window a man was spanking a woman; he looked very determined. She was making certain that her hands would not hamper him by holding on to his left ankle; she did not resist but could not help to wiggle a little, and sometimes kick her long legs when a slap was even more stinging than the previous, or if it hit a specifically vulnerable place. For minutes none of them said anything; if we don’t count her occasional gasps and moans. The only sounds were the rhythmical slaps of his hand and the same sound reflected almost as an echo from the naked walls of this hotel room. It was the best hotel room the town could provide; but it was rather spartan. Bigger than most hotel rooms, with a rough, practical wall-to-wall carpet; a big double bed, not romantic of design but practically dimensioned for tall people, equipped with basic bed-linen, no more and no less. A sofa, a low glass table in front of the sofa, a chair; a mini-bar between the two windows, with a small TV set on the wall over it - and in daylight the view to the mountains from those windows was a real luxury, if the only one. A narrow shelf in front of a mirror would serve for ladies make-up arrangements, in front of that a wooden, stiff-backed chair with no armrests. No paintings or anything on the whitewashed walls. In the chair in front of the mirror Martin sat, with Blade over his lap. After the first fury – and pleasure – he was now more thorough and thoughtful. He’d not spanked a girl for the last five or six years; actually he’d only spanked one girl, his beloved little sister when she’d urgently needed it, which had happened only very seldom. He had never spanked a woman before. His sister had fought, and yelled, and screamed, cried, pleaded for mercy, made impossible promises. But Blade did none of this. Instead she’d found his rhythm and sort of synchronized her movements with it, always putting her behind in the very best ‘ready-position’ accurately anticipating the effectful landing of his hand. Only after a while did she say anything, and she punctuated her sentence in a way not to disturb the spanking. ‘Martin,’ she whispered, ‘could - - you - - do it - - on the - - bare?’ He did not reply but he did pause the six seconds necessary to draw down her tiny briefs. With this the sound of the spanking changed; now it was flesh-and-skin directly against flesh-and-skin. ‘Oooohhhhh…’ she sighed. In the sigh Martin heard pain, but more joy; or was it pleasure or satisfaction? And with this sigh the spanking shifted nature. Martin no longer spanked her to punish her; not even to get rid of his anger and frustrations. He was aware that now he spanked her just to spank her; but that was too confusing to be called a realisation. He was very uncertain about what was going on, but whatever it was, it felt right. Now he spanked her slower; not harder but more diligently taking care that each and every slap was biting and burning. ‘Yeeeessss…’ she whispered. This whisper made him aware of his bodily reaction; not only that, he also realised that she could feel that eager, firm reaction pressing against her, would have felt that for a long time - and he was suddenly scared and shameful. ‘It’s fine, Martin,’ she whispered immediately when he lowered his hand and stopped the spanking. ‘Thank you! So far…’ she said. With some effort she got up; there were tears down her face, her jeweleyes were swollen, and she had to wipe her nose. But she grinned her good, old mischievous grin. ‘If your hand hurts too much, I do have a hairbrush…’ She turned to watch her behind in the mirror, and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good job, Martin-man,’ she smiled, as he stared at the deep-dark-red colour of her behind, here and there even purple and blue. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she said; took his hands and made him stand up; then she embraced him, kissed his salty eyes. ‘Should I tell you…?’ she said. And went directly on, ‘Yes, guess I must! I always wanted you to spank me, Martin, and I did so much just for that reason. I was so envious of Mirka… Now you did it, Martin-man, and I want you to be proud of that – only a real man can spank Blade! And you did it very well indeed…’ Then she grinned, ‘I do hope I’ll not have to sit-over the Midnight Waltz or any other dance, because sitting is not going to be comfortable for some days…’ That made both of them look at her alarm clock. They were both shocked, but their reactions differed a lot. Martin said, ‘Oh my, I spanked you for almost twenty minutes… (gulp!)’ Blade said, ‘Oh gosh, the Midnight Waltz is in thirty minutes, and how I look (sneer!)’ A very meek and timid Martin assisted Blade to make her and himself ready; he knew that when it came to these things any woman is better than any man; women are time-wasters, multi-focussed, and disorganized – except in a real emergency like a certain dance-event coming up at a specific second which they can not influence; the realisation that if you’re ten seconds late you are irrevocably too late creates miracles. Well, Martin smiled to himself – if they can do it under certain circumstances then they can learn to do it under all circumstances; that’s probably where spankings come in handy. Blade was somewhat annoyed with him that he didn’t know how to plait her hair but then settled to carrying her hair lose down her back; even if that – to her irritation – covered her very-deep-cut backside decolletee so much that people could not see that she used no bra. Martin liked her lose hair more than her previous, stylish hairdo, and it also did not displease him too much that other men would not be intoxicated by her bralessness. Eight minutes to midnight Blade entered the ballroom (they’d agreed that they’d better not make their entrance together), while Martin unobtrusively emerged from a dark corner of the bar ten seconds later. They should have known – of course! – that Miroslava had eyes and brain in her head; she had concern and care also, because when she addressed them no one else was within hearing distance. ‘So, what in the world have you been doing for so long,’ she started, ‘we’ve been afraid that you’d not make it for The Waltz…’ ‘Papa’s here?’ was Martins concern. ‘Yes,’ Mirka said, ‘but…’ ‘So, you won’t have to sit The Midnight Waltz out, ‘ he grinned to Blade. But Blade flashed a smile to Miroslava. ‘Your brother spanked me,’ she said. Mirka looked stupefied, and Martin wanted the floor to open and swallow him. But Blade just gave his arm a tiny poke and went on, ‘I deserved it, Mirkin; and it’s fine as long as I don’t have to sit.’ Shaking her head in confusion Mirka turned around and rushed to the other end of the room, where her parents, Petr, and Pavel were chatting. For the second time this night, Blade put out her tongue at Martin; but this time only he saw it. He hooked her arm, and together they strode onto the dancefloor, with all the others. Mirka and the other female maturitant with their fathers, Petr and the other male maturitant with their mothers; Martins mother with Petrs father, and so on – couple after couple glided in place till the floor was full. Then everybody became quiet; they did not talk, did not move. They listened. For a minute or so the only sound was the gentle rattling of the curtains in the night breeze through the open windows and doors. Then was heard the first stroke of the church bell. At the sixth stroke the men bowed for their partner, the women curtseyed. And in the very first second after the twelfth stroke of the bell, the light flashed-up and the orchestra exploded into a swinging, lively wienerwaltz, each man took his woman in his arms, each woman clasped her partner, and all the couples circled round the floor. If walking with Blade on his arm had been an amazing sensation, dancing with her in his arms was more amazing still. Martin had not only been honest, he had been right when he said no one could help dancing well with Blade. She was like an armful of thistledown. The mere touch of her took off the weight from his feet in a mysterious way. They slid smoothly over the mirrorblank floor, the violins wailing their hearts out. Martin happened to glide a gentle hand down over her naked back, and a little further; when his hand rested for a second on the area it had spanked, she uttered a small, ‘Uush…’ He moved the hand away and looked down at her. She looked a trifle distracted, as if she was seeing visions. The sight of her pretty, strong face, with dreamy dark jeweleyes, and the slightly open mouth displaying her white teeth, and the strange inspired calm of her expression, all gave lightness to Martins feet. He was a man inspired.