Latitia

I slipped out of bed, peed, brushed my teeth, and pulled on a shirt, one of my well-worn "weekend" shirts, a button-down Oxford cloth washed so often it was almost silky, and my jeans. I didn't bother with shoes or socks.

Then I waited.

I watched as her eyes fluttered open, and offered my hand, helping her out of bed while she yawned and stretched.

"Daisy," I said, using her name and establishing our positions, "what are you required to do when you get home on Friday evening?"

I could see the confusion on her face as she struggled to focus her eyes, and her mind on my question.

"Ah gets home an' changes, suh," she said, literally shaking her head to clear it. I could see her eyes flick up and right as she struggled to get her thoughts in order.

"Walk me through it," I said, working hard to sound calm and reasonable.

"Wellllll," she said, still thinking and organizing her thoughts, "Ah gets home an' goes straight to the bedroom. A takes off mah clothes an' puts them away or in the dirty clothes. Den Ah puts on dat thang you made fo' me an' comes ta see what you wants me ta do."

For the first time since I had known her, I deliberately hurt my wife. I reached out, glad for all of those hours in the Shaolin Do school

daochang

(in the Chinese martial arts training is in a

daochang

led by a

sifu

. The more common Japanese forms are done in a

dojo

led by a

sensei

. Those learning the Korean forms do so in a

dojang

(obviously similar to the Chinese

daochang

) led by a

sabumnin

) that taught me the control and quickness to do it with precision, and grabbed her ear.

"Tell me," I said, putting all of the intensity they had taught me first in NCO school in the Air Force and then in methods and techniques classes as I was working through the curriculum to be a teacher, "step-by-step. If you leave anything out you'll regret it."

Her hand was at her ear, not pulling at my hand but trying to comfort herself.

"David," she cried out and I twisted harder.

"WHAT did you call me?" I snapped.

Tears ran down her cheeks and her eyes were big when she said, "Please, Massah, no mo'."

I eased the pressure on her ear a little but knew I was still hurting her.

"Now tell me, Daisy," and I gave her ear a quick twist, drawing a cry from her, "EXACTLY what you did when you got home yesterday."

"Ah come in an' went ta da bedroom, lakh you wants me tuh," she started and something stirred deep in my mind as her accent thickened almost becoming unintelligible. She was truly Daisy now, and part of me wondered if I would ever be able to get Latitia back.

But, okay, let's be honest here. The little head between my legs was in charge now and I was enjoying Daisy too much to worry about it right then.

She told me, her accent getting thicker and thicker, what she had done.

"An' den ah comes in heah, tuh y'all," she finished.

I twisted her ear, making her cry out.

"Did you think you could get by with lying to me?" I asked.

"Owwwww, JESUS, nah suh, ah ain' lyin'," she sort of wailed.

I had a moment of self-reflection. It kind of scared me how much I liked her look right then. Her eyes were red and her tears were flowing. Her nose was running and when she spoke thick strings of silvery saliva and mucus connected her upper and lower lip. I can't say she was pretty, but she was more perfectly feminine, more utterly female, than at any time since I had known her.

I twisted, forcing her to look down.

"You're lying," I said.

"OWWWWWWWW, nah, nah, Suh, ah ain'," she wailed.

"God damn it, girl, look at your fucking toes," I said, emphasizing every third word or so with a twist on her ear.

I could see she finally realized what I meant.

"Oh, God," she said, her voice breaking, "Ah fohgaht. Oh, suh, I's sorry."

"So you admit you've been lying?" I asked, my anger replaced with calm now.

"Ah wan't lahin'," she said, meeting my eyes, "Ah just fohgaht."

I held her eyes, deliberately holding the tableau, I did a slow count to thirty - - one Mississippi, two Mississippi...

"Okay, Daisy," I said, working hard to get my voice calm and conversational, "I believe you. And it's your first transgression too, so, well," and I gave her my best bright smile, "I guess I'll cut your punishment in half."

"Mah pun'shmen'?" she asked, meeting my eyes.

"Yes, Daisy. As you told poor Mildred last night, lessons absolutely must be taught," I said, "but, as I said, I'm feeling kind of generous this morning so it'll only be five strokes with my new teacher."

"Teachuh?" she asked.

"Yes, Daisy. If lessons must be taught, surely there must be a teacher," I said, releasing her and enjoying the way her body seemed to sag a little in relief, and opening the special "Daisy Drawer" to get out that spanking strap.

Her eyes got big as I approached her.

"Take it," I said, offering the spanking strap.

"Massuh," she said, her voice soft and pleading.

"Take it," I said again, putting a little snap into my voice, "feel it, touch it, look at it."

She was crying again, tears running, nose running, mouth drooling a little, as she took the strap, ran her fingers down its length, looked at the stitching, and almost caressed it.

"Kiss it," I said, very softly, into her ear, "and tell it 'thank you' for the lesson it is going to teach you."

She moaned, a low sound deep in her throat, almost coming from her belly.

As I watched her close her eyes and kiss the business end of the strap, her lips parted softly in the way I had felt her kiss me a thousand times, my dick got instantly hard.

"Thank you," she said softly with the perfect diction of a college teacher with a Ph. D., "for the lessons you teach."

"Good girl," I said softly.

She handed the strap back and said, "Yassuh."

"Now," I said, holding her eyes, "here's what's going to happen. We're going into the front room because punishment is not something to be hidden away. When I say 'Assume the position, Daisy,' you're going to bend over and grab your ankles. You will count each lesson from the Teacher," and I realized I was thinking of it with the capital "T" as a proper noun, "and you'll hold your position until I tell you it's okay to stand. Understand?"

"Yassuh," she said.

"Oh, one other thing," I said, "If you release your grip, the count starts over."

When she didn't say anything I said, "Understand?"

"Yassuh," she said, "Ah unnerstands an' Ah'll hole on."

"Okay, then," I said, being so cheerful I felt silly, but I wanted to drive this image home.

She walked in front of me and I watched every movement of that beautiful ass, her big round gluteus maximus muscles each performing a little show, that gorgeous junk in her trunk, as she put it, begging for kisses and caresses and, yes, stripes.

In the front room, I looked around, seeking as close to the exact center as I could find before I pointed at a spot and said, "Right here."

She stood still while I went to the stereo and found the "love songs" station we used from time to time and started soft background music going.

"Okay, Daisy," I said, "assume the position."

She looked at me, eyes big, beseeching is the word, but when I didn't say anything more she bent at the waist and grabbed her ankles.

I thought, for just a moment, about taking her then, from behind in that position, but I didn't.

I pushed the coffee table away so I would have plenty of clearance and then extended my arm, measuring the distance.

As the business end of the strap touched the roundness of her ass she flinched, but held the position.

The first stroke was pretty ineffective, to be honest about it. I wasn't sure, yet, how flexible the shaft was or how the weight of the business end would affect the swing.

So the first swing, the first stroke, wasn't very effective but still, she cried out and I could see her struggling to hold that position.

An image flashed through my mind. Back when I was in high school, or maybe even junior high school, a book, well, a pair of books,

Mandingo

and

Drum

, by a guy named Kyle Onsott (no, my memory isn't that good, I Googled it), was making the rounds. In those books, both of which were passed around among the boys because of their titillating sex scenes, the main slave character wound up getting killed. But what I remembered most clearly was that for the punishments, and there had been a lot of them, all slaves had been required to watch.

I suppose that was part of what I had been thinking when I demanded she hang on to her ankles or the count would start over. I was making her participate.

"One," she said after a deep breath.

The second stroke took her breath away. I had the distances and angles figured out by then and I swung for the proverbial fence. She gasped and her entire body trembled for almost a full minute as I watched.

She was moaning softly, and I could hear her repeating, "Oh, God, oh, God," over and over.

"T-Two," she managed, her voice breaking.

When she stopped trembling, and chanting, I let her relax another minute or so.

The third stroke set the stage for future strokes. I had the weight and flexibility figured out, the distances right, and the proper amount of velocity. Any more and I might actually knock her over, and that wouldn't be fair. Any less and, well, I wouldn't be delivering the maximum lesson.

She let out a wordless vowel of a sound, Kind of "aaaaAAAAAAHHHHHHNNNNNNNNNNUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHhhhhhhhh," and I thought the count would start over when her hands opened, fingers extended, before hooking into claws and grabbing on again but I decided contact had never been lost so I'd let that one pass.

"Th-th-th-THREE," she cried, her voice bubbly as her nose plugged up and ran like a damn faucet and thick drool hung from her mouth. She struggled to clear her throat and another gout of thick clear snot hung from her nose.

Her skin is so dark I couldn't see any red where the strap was landing, but it was darkening already with an incipient bruise.

I hadn't realized when I had first pictured it in my mind, but the position she was in restricted her ability to draw a deep breath. She coughed and tried to clear her throat, adding to the mess flowing from her mouth and puddling on the floor.

I waited until her breathing returned to normal before delivering the fourth stroke.

"Oh JESUS," she cried, her hands doing that opening and stretching thing again, but keeping contact with the ridge of her foot at her ankles, "F-F-F-FOUR!"

And I realized that she was sexually aroused. I could smell that wonderful, pheromone-laden womanscent that evolution had given her to ensure nearby males would want to give her their seed. I could see the thick white natural lubricant of her readiness glistening around her full labia.

As I watched, letting her rest, her pussy overflowed and a thick string stretched from her.

I inhaled deeply, taking in her scent like a hit from a pot pipe back when I was in college.

The fifth stroke drew an animal keening sound from her. It wasn't a human, "owwwww," it was more something you would expect as the coyote chewed off its own leg to escape the trap. It started low, ran up in pitch and volume, an "eeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeee

" sound.

Her entire body was shuddering and I watched her hands closely. If I'm being honest here, I'm not sure which way I wanted it to go. If she broke contact with her ankles the count would start over, but if she hung on she would show her core strength and bravery.

She hung on even as her fingers extended and clenched over and over, and her entire body trembled.

She was crying, but not sobbing or bawling, just crying softly.

As I watched that thick white string between her legs broke and landed on the floor between her feet.

I was so damn hard that I hurt.

"Stand up, Daisy," I said, "and give me your hands."

She took a deep, bubbly breath, stood, her head hanging, and took my hands.

"Look at me, Daisy," I said.

Her head came up very slowly, thick strings of snot and drool first hanging and then covering her chin and running down between her breasts as she met my eyes.

Her face was still a rictus of pain. Her eyes were red and swollen and tears streamed from them. Her nose, always broad, was running and on each side were thick knots from the way her sinuses were swollen. Her lips were parted and a sheet of thick drool, a mixture of mucus and saliva connected them.

She was hideous and beautiful.

She was perfectly female and utterly feminine.

I did something I had never done before with Daisy.

I kissed her.

It was slick and sloppy, tasting of salt. It was oily. It was a GREAT kiss.

When I broke the kiss and pushed her to arm's length a silvery string connected our mouths until it broke leaving a wet line down the front of my shirt.

"Have you learned your lesson?" I asked.

"Oh, yassuh Ah has," she said, her accent so thick I almost had to translate mentally.

"Good girl," I said, "Now come with me."

I led her into the bedroom.

"Undress me, Daisy," I said.

She didn't meet my eyes as she started on the buttons of my shirt. She was still crying softly, tears flowing and nose running, but her fingers were steady. She pulled the shirt off and then eased to her knees to do the button and zipper of my jeans. I put my hands on her shoulders for balance as I stepped out of them.

She finally looked up.

"Does ah please y'all, massah," she asked.

I smiled and said, "Yes, Daisy, you're my good girl."

I offered her my hand and led her to bed.

Laying, side by side, I kissed her gently.

"Oh, massah," she sighed as I slipped inside of her where she was hot and slick and ready.

"I think," I said, holding myself up on outstretched arms and looking down at her, "we won't go back to the doctor for your Progestin injection."

Her eyes got big. We had been on an injection every three months for birth control while she got established.

I smiled down at her.

"It's time we put a little Pickaninny in you," I said.

She exploded. This was beyond cumming or orgasm or squirting or any other description you care to try. Her entire body was clenched. Her heels dug into my ass pulling me deeper. Her vaginal muscles clenched, squeezing me almost painfully. Her fingers clenched, digging into my back so hard I wondered if she was drawing blood.

"Yassuh, oh yassuh, pu' dat baby in me, please suh, yassuh," she was babbling as she came in waves, soaking us both.

I was covering her face with kisses, slick, snotty, wet, oily kisses that I found to be far, far better than Viagra.

I lasted with her until she started slowing down. She was gasping for breath, slick with sweat, and kept talking, "Yes, massah, yassuh, put it in me."

My release was like nothing since I was a 20-year-old newlywed. I came in a half dozen distinct pumps that left my balls empty and a little ache deep in my belly as my prostate contracted.

Spent, I laid back but she wasn't done.

She was covering my face with those slick snotty kisses and still babbling, but the words had changed.

"Yo' gon' raise da babe in de house, suh, please, don' make no field nigguh outta ouah baby, please, massah, say yo' gon' do dat," she was saying.

"Hush now, girl," I said, and knew my smile probably made me look a little crazy right then, "let me rest."

"Yassuh," she said, but she snuggled against me and those slick lips kept kissing as I relaxed.