Spanking Storybook

Anna and Her Dog – Part 4 – Conclusion – by Mark Cepillo

Her note read as follows:

“Mi querido Rogelio—each time I receive a gift from my ‘secret admirer’ I imagine that it comes from you. Still, if it is so, I am deeply puzzled, for I know you must disapprove of my conduct with the innocent men whose lives I’ve disrupted. Indeed, I am a mystery to myself, and my guilt is as profound as my inability up to now to change my behavior. Here then, is my wish—please punish me as you see fit, and then do with me as you want…I am yours.”

I found her in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, face buried in her hands. I had to practically pry her hands open before I could kiss those lips that had filled my reveries for months. When she started to stammer something I put my fingers to her lips, feeling that this was no time for talking, and quickly turned her over my lap.

She was quiet now, only sighing as I slowly slipped her skirt up to reveal the thong I knew would be there. The sight of her voluptuous buttocks, essentially naked and turned up for me so invitingly, was more intoxicating than the rum I had consumed that afternoon.

I began by scolding her, and I meant it—I reminded her of my friend Magdalena, who became so distraught after Anna lured her lover away that she withdrew in the middle of the semester and returned to Puerto Rico. The things I told her she already knew, but hearing it from me, in that vulnerable and exposed position, seemed to have a strong effect on her. She began to tremble slightly, keeping her face hidden from me so that it was impossible to tell if she was already crying, and all she could say was “Yes, Rogelio,” in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

Then I began to spank her, but not like the playful spankings I had sometimes given those former girlfriends who took such delight in provoking me. I spanked her purposefully, hard and rapidly, as a husband might spank a wife found gambling away the rent money, or a father with a teenage daughter arrested for reckless driving. It was with a feeling of great satisfaction that I felt her defenses starting to crumble, and before very long she was crying openly in what must have been a moment of profound catharsis for her. She no longer turned away from me, and seemed to be not at all embarrassed that I could see large tears tracing their path down her beautiful face.

We had been so focused on the moment that I do not believe either of us had heard Fidel’s incessant yapping during the entire duration of the spanking. I let her up then, with no clear idea of what would come next. Anna, however, was much clearer. She locked Fidel in the bathroom and went off to compose herself in the other room, returning with two tall cuba libres. She sat on my lap, apparently having lost none of her taste for taking the initiative, so that I could feel the warmth of her buttocks on my legs. We began to kiss passionately, after which it seemed very natural to spontaneously turn her over my knee again.

This time the tone was completely different. A subtle but unmistakable squirming of her hips told me that it was time to remove her thong, which slipped easily over her pink bottom. In another moment she was gasping and moaning, her derriere rising rhythmically to meet the palm of my hand—in short, a romantic spanking, segueing smoothly and inevitably into the most intense lovemaking of my life.

So that is how it began, two years ago, although it seems like yesterday. As for tomorrow, it is not easy to say. Anna wishes to return to Nicaragua someday soon, so we have a long road before us, and the most complicated and difficult part of it is only just beginning.

Oh, you ask, what did I write in my envelope on that fateful day? I leave that to your imagination.

The End

(Mark loves comments and feedback on his stories : Zorro7usa @ yahoo.com.)

Anna and Her Dog – Part 3 – by Mark Cepillo  (zorro7usa @ yahoo . com)

She greeted me the next day wearing a short burgundy dress that showed her slim legs to advantage, a white shirt with gold cuff links, and the hoop earrings, which I complimented.

“Yes, they’re from a supposed ‘secret admirer’.”

She smiled her enigmatic smile—did she suspect?

“Whose numbers, I’m sure, are legion.”

“Oh Rogelio, you sound like a character from a Jane Austen novel.” But I could tell she liked it.

While she prepared cocktails in the kitchen of her charming, understated apartment, I examined her bookshelves. Along with the expected psychology texts and Latin American novels I spied a volume which immediately led me to reformulate my plan—it was “Story of O,” by Pauline Reage. Clearly there was more to Anna Natalia Chamorro than I had dared to imagine.

She returned with the cocktails (designed, I’m sure, to cloud my judgement), and the little dog, who regarded me balefully, its beady little eyes barely visible through a tangle of white hair.

“Say hello to Fidel,” she said, indicating the little cur, who sniffed my pants leg and took it upon himself to growl ominously, as if he could intimidate anything larger than a hamster.

Without further ado Anna seated herself at the chess board, again taking the white pieces.

“I have a suggestion,” I said. “To make the game even more interesting, I propose we play for secret stakes.”

She looked at me inquiringly.

“Each of us will write a wish on a piece of paper and seal it in an envelope. When the game is over, the winner will receive his or her wish.”

Now she eyed me with amusement, but, as I had calculated, her self-confidence led her to agree. She took a while to write down her stakes, we each sealed our envelope, and it was time for the game to begin….although truth to tell, it had been underway for some time already.

This time around her attention was focused, and her attack as subtle as it was ferocious. Forty five minutes and three cuba libres later I was still parrying her moves, and while we were playing on relatively even terms, something strange and unexpected began to occur. I found myself consumed with the desire to learn what she had written in her note, that note which she had so carefully composed. My instincts told me that the only way to gain a decisive insight into Anna’s carefully guarded soul was to read that note, and it seemed there was only one way to guarantee that. Thus I decided that, my competive nature be hanged, I would lose, but so cleverly that she would not suspect my complicity in her victory.

Her reaction upon winning the game was a study in contrasts—at first an unmistakeable exultation in her eyes, quickly replaced by every sign of confusion and nervousness. She stood up suddenly, startling Fidel, and drained her cocktail glass. Then she pushed her envelope toward me, her hand shaking, saying:

“Please read this, but I have to wait in the other room. If I have misjudged you, please leave and never mention it to me again, or to anyone else. All will go on as before. Otherwise…”

But she could not continue. She practically ran from the room, followed by Fidel, and slammed the door behind her. Her note read as follows:

- To Be Continued -   I know I know that was a mean place to leave you hanging like that.

Anna and Her Dog – Part 2 by Mark Cepillo  (zorro7usa @ yahoo . com)

It was a quiet Friday afternoon when I came upon Anna in the I House lounge.  She was alone for once, one eye on a chess board on which she worked out a problem, the other roaming about the room in her typically restless manner.  I took a seat near her as she pretended to devote her full attention to the board.  After a moment….

“How about a game, Anna?”

She looked up with a half-smile, humoring me.

“I didn’t know you played, Marcelo.”

I took a chair directly across from her.

“Rogelio.”

She knew my name very well, it was just one of her little psychological games to call me by the name of someone I disliked, and who did not look anything like me.

“Of course, Rogelio.  Dispensame.”

She moved the pieces back in their starting positions, allocating the white pieces to herself.

“Unfortunately I don’t have much time….”

“Anna, sabes muy bien that you don’t need much time to beat me.  Pavel tells me that you are the number four seed in the chess club.”

“Number three.”

“Of course, number three.”

She was certainly a good player, although perhaps not as good as she imagined.  Her opening was very standard and unimaginative, clearly indicating her estimation of my level of play.  Still, I put on a show of studying it seriously.

My own moves were carefully calculated to give the impression of a beginning player, further lulling her into a sense of security.  Besides, her attention was frequently distracted by one or another man coming by to greet her and engage in playful flirting, with all the usual Latin banter and double entendres.  My seemingly clumsy moves were designed to conceal a subtle snare, and the more pieces I lost to her the more untenable her position became.  Before she realized what was happening I had her king in check.  Two moves later it was checkmate.

Her dark eyes were absolutely opaque at that moment, but the blush on her cheeks betrayed the level of emotion she struggled to contain.

“Well, I don’t know how that happened,” I laughed.  “Beginner’s luck, como dicen aqui.”

She regarded me coolly, doubtlessly trying to tell if she had been played.

“No, no, Rogelio, it was very well done.  Your style is a little unorthodox, perhaps…but let’s play again.”

Of course I had guessed she would say that.

“You know I would love to, but you said you had little time…”

She stood up, obviously conflicted, cheeks still aflame.

“What about tomorrow?”, I said.  “Somewhere free of interruptions.”

So that is how I got myself invited to her apartment on Saturday.  Although it was what I had hoped for, it still surprised me.  But perhaps she wanted to make sure there would be no witnesses in the unlikely event that she lost again.

- To Be Continued -

I’m so excited to post this story from Mark.  This is one of those stories where the spanking isn’t center stage, but it’s an important part of the romance relationship.  I’ll be posting it over the next couple of days.  Yes, you’re either going to have to subscribe or keep coming back! That’s how it works.  You’re going to like this one.  Thank you so much, Mark, for giving me permission to post this!  Mark is from Southern California, and you can send him feedback on his story at zorro7usa (at) yahoo (dot) com.

Anna and Her Dog – Part 1  by Mark Cepillo

It was said that there was a new arrival in town.  The men of International House were always quick to take note when a new woman appeared on the scene.  Perhaps because many of them were from other countries, and homesick, they hoped that the new person might come from their homeland, able to catch them up with news and gossip.

As it turned out, Anna was from Nicaragua.  While she did not live at I House, she made it her habit to take her meals there.  On those occasions, of course, her little white dog, whom she could be seen walking on campus, stayed home.

She was gregarious, and at mealtimes would circulate to various tables, easily making conversation with people no matter their country of origin.  Often she would join the table where those of us from Latin America would congregate, where the talk would shift easily from Spanish to English and back again.  On one of those occasions I learned that her father was a diplomat, recently posted to the San Francisco consulate.  She was enrolled in the graduate school of psychology, and I had the feeling that beneath her lively exterior lurked the soul of a careful observer, mentally evaluating the character of all in her company.  What impression she had formed of me I can only guess, but I was always cautious in what I chose to reveal to her.

Being somewhat of an observer myself, I took notice that a direct approach was not at all effective with Anna.  The I House men who “came on” to her overtly were invariably shot down in flames, and it seemed apparent that she preferred to take the initiative herself in matters of romance.  In addition—and this was her outstanding character flaw—she seemed to take interest only in men who were already involved with someone else.  Perhaps she liked the challenge, or it may have been a sign of deep insecurity, her way of reassuring herself that she was the most desirable woman around.  Whatever her motive, her interest in these men lasted only long enough to effect her conquest, and within a few months she had left a trail of broken hearts and outraged women in her wake.  Still, few of my fellows could resist her charms, and they would fling themselves at her  like so many crazed moths.

While I pondered how best to play my hand—for I had determined to succeed where others had failed—I began to send her a series of presents anonymously, always signed “From A Secret Admirer.”  The large gold hoop earrings she began to wear immediately, as they complemented her copper-toned skin admirably.  I was certain she also used the black thong underwear, since there was now no discernible panty line when she wore her skin-tight white or blue jeans.  Did she suspect they came from me?  I received no clue from her large, calm, half-mast brown eyes.

Eventually I settled on an approach, or, as my American friends might say, my “game plan.”  Anna had joined the International House chess club, the university’s best, and had soon risen to number three seed.  While my own chess skills were mediocre at best, I was friends with Pavel Dmitritch, the club’s number one seed, whose assistance I enlisted in my scheme.  After weeks of intensive secret tutorials and clandestine study of Russian chess journals, I felt ready to lay my trap.

- To Be Continued -