Blame it on the Cat

As I walk in the door I sense immediately something’s wrong. It’s too quiet. And not a peaceful quiet.. I call out, “Hello?” but he doesn’t answer. I assume he’s not home and that I’m being paranoid and breathe an inaudible sigh of relief.

After putting my bag on the table and taking off my boots, I wander to the kitchen for a drink of water and try to figure out what on earth I’ll make for dinner. He’s sick of ordering all the time and wants me to cook more. I’m not a great cook and don’t really enjoy it, but I’m trying. I stand for far too long staring into the open refrigerator willing something to jump out at me and say, “Cook me!”. I remember there’s some chicken in the freezer. I take it out and put it in the fridge to thaw some. I’ll nuke it later to thaw completely before I cook it. That out of the way, I wander into the living room with my glass of water in one hand and the mail in the other.

One moment I’m looking at the mail, and the next it’s on the floor at my feet. Because as I look up there he is sitting in “his” chair, silently, patiently, with that evil smirk on his face and all I can think as my mind clenches up like a fist is, “Uh-oh.” Our eyes meet, his with smug satisfaction, mine with abject fear.

“Welcome home,” he says in a deceivingly pleasant voice.

“Hi,” I croak out.

“How was your day?”

“Oh, um, not too bad. Busy. How was yours?”

Neither of us has moved as we continue on with this banal conversation for what feels like an eternity. I’m frozen in my spot like a statue. He’s comfortable in his chair, legs crossed, hands placidly clasped in his lap.

“Come over here,” he says. Almost as if it’s a request, but I know full well it is not. I move closer to his chair and as I approach he uncrosses his legs and spreads them apart. This indicates to me I’m to stand between them.

Once I’m in place and he’s looking up at me, my eyes averted downward, but not looking at him, he begins to explain why I am, as I suspected the moment I saw him, in trouble.

“Here’s something interesting”, he begins, “when I got home today there was a message on the machine from Ernie. He wanted to mention that before he left for work today, as he was passing the house, he noticed our garage door was open, but no cars were around. He pulled into the driveway and, assuming we had just left it open by accident when leaving for work, he kindly closed it so no-one would be tempted to come in and steal anything. He’s a lovely neighbor, Ernie. Too bad all our neighbors aren’t like him, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mentally I’m kicking and cursing myself for stupidly forgetting to close the door.
“I was running a bit late because I had to give Kit her meds,” I say. “I almost forgot, I was half way out the door when I remembered and ran back in and gave them to her. The vet was adamant that she have them everyday or the infection would take longer to heal. Then I ran out and sped off so I wouldn’t be late for work and must have forgotten to close the door. I’m sorry. Ernie is very conscientious.”

This is a perfectly reasonable explanation, I think. But, I know that there’s no help here. At least this is not THAT bad. I mean, he can’t think something like this would deserve a really bad punishment. So, while I’m nervous, anxious that what’s to come will be bad, I also realize that from the moment I realized I’d done something wrong, I began to get excited. The warm, dark space between my legs was getting damp.

“Well,” he says, “that is a perfectly reasonable explanation.” I think, no good can come from the fact that he’s just said exactly what I was thinking.

“Come closer to me.” I move up a few inches. “Take your pants off, please.” I pull my pants down and off my legs, fold them neatly and put them on the floor beside me. I stand back up and for a moment he just looks at me. Quietly, but I’m interpreting this as menacing.

“Pull your panties down to your ankles.” I do this and once I’m standing again, he puts his right foot between my ankles and nudges my feet about 18 inches apart. Enough so that my thighs aren’t touching and he has a clear view of my increasingly swollen vulva. For what feels like hours he just looks at me. He looks at my cunt. I wonder if he can see, like stop-gap photography, how excited I’m becoming by his gaze. How puffy and wet and hot my pussy continues to get with each passing minute.

With his head tilted to one side a bit and his gaze still intent on my crotch, he licks his lips and says, “I love how I can see your lips hanging down. They’re big, your lips. Big and dark and luscious, and I like how I can see them. Spread your legs a bit wider for me.”

I do so with a little gasp of excitement. His stare has made me so wet I wonder if I am literally dripping. With my legs spread wider he sits forward in his chair, still looking, watching my cunt. Almost like he’s watching TV and waiting for the next part of the plot to unfold.

He speaks and his voice is thick with desire and excitement and I see the evidence of this in the bulge in his slacks.

“Touch yourself. Slowly, put your middle finger first down to your opening, making your finger wet, and then pull it up to your clit and masturbate.”

With tremendous relief I follow his instructions to the letter. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all, I think. The moment my finger touches my cunt an involuntary moan escapes my throat. My finger, slick and covered with juice, begins to make slow concentric circles on my clit. My eyes close as I feel the sensation, the pleasure, of finally being allowed to attend to my desire. I slowly massage my clit, making sure not to speed up and get too close.

“Stop.” This is said quietly and slowly, but firmly. I reluctantly pull my hand away and let it rest at my side. Then, with a motion so fast and smooth it’s barely conceivable, I am across his lap, my wet sex pressed firmly against his thigh and my ass exposed.

His right hand gently rubs my cheeks, warming them, enjoying them. He does this for a while and then quickly drops his finger between my legs and enters me, fast and deep, but not hard. With just 2 fingers he rhythmically fucks me. My legs spread automatically and I push my ass up to force him to go deeper into me. He fucks me with such skill and knowledge, I am quickly close to coming. He knows this and stops. Pulling his fingers out he swiftly smacks my ass 3 times in succession on each cheek - high, low, thigh; high, low, thigh. Hard, punishing, stinging smacks. The sound of them echoes in the room and when he’s done he takes a moment, just a few seconds, to watch as his finger marks appear.

Then he repeats the series 2 more times, each time a little harder than the last. With each swat I cry out with tears streaming down my face. At the end of the course, he rests, just a moment, and then again, plunges his fingers into my molten, dripping cunt. Pushing me, driving me to the brink of release, and again stops and begins another series of the spanking.

I lose count how many times he puts me through the progression of spanking and fucking and spanking and fucking. I can’t tell how many orgasms I’ve found and lost and found again, only to feel it denied again and again and again and replaced with resounding, unrelenting pain and burn.

Until they are one and the same, the pleasure and the pain are no different one from the other and I crave them both, and hate them both. And he’s no longer separate from me, punishing and cruel and denying. We’re connected now in a way that is necessary and exquisite.

And his fingers, now 4 of them, are massaging my cervix and reaching into me, pushing me in places that only these fingers know to go and this time they aren’t stopping and this time I’m so close and I know there is no more denial, there is no more punishment, and like a wave crashing over me my cunt clenches and spasms around these fingers and my body convulses and my voice cries out in the ecstasy. His face is now close to mine, his hot breath and lips close to my ear, “Good girl. Such a good girl.”

New tears spring from my eyes, tears of undying release and relief and my body of it’s own curls up towards him, into him and his arms wrap around me, envelop me and hold me and I’m at home and at peace. And we rest like this for some time.

After a short while in this sublime state, with laughter in his voice and a smile in his eyes as he gazes down at me, a lump on his lap, he says, “Now, I know you won’t leave the garage door open again, will you my love?”

“Of course not”, I say with a gleam in my eye.