Date: Wed, 4 Sep 1996 21:46:55 -0400 X-Sender: teddyt@teddyt.pop.crosslink.net Mime-Version: 1.0 To: laura@netgate.net From: Ted Subject: Cupid is as Cupid Does Cupid is as Cupid Does(M/f, M/f, M/F, M/F) She walked slowly through the formal garden, a rivulet of perspiration trickling down the middle of the three "close" parentheses that crinkled a visage that had seen much. Finally, the matriarch found her regular spot on the stone bench, leaned her head back and slowly fanned the spring heat from her face. Fully alert now, she turned her gray head to the left and followed the serpentine gravel path toward the copse that broadened 50 yards down the lane into a wide, but lightly thatched, forest. She had come here daily starting back when the sex was dirty and the air was clean. Breathing was a little harder now with the humidity and the spread of urban pollution. But the woman on this day was experiencing an unusual clarity of all her senses. On this day, she was able, finally, to see down the path where it joined the tree line. There, a girl no more than 9 years old skipped easily, hand-in-hand, with a man of broad shoulders and svelte torso. She was in blue gingham, he in double-breasted seersucker suit and straw hat. The woman could hear their voices, but not their words, except an occasional squeal of glee from the brown-haired moppet and the word, "Papa." The woman smiled sweetly and half closed her eyes in defense against the angle of the morning sun. Though the father and daughter tripped gaily into the woods, the woman never lost them from her sight. In fact, it was Papa who lost his own daughter when he stopped to light his corncob pipe and she scurried away. Oh, they weren't separated but for half a minute, but when reunited, little Tory was most unhappy. She had slipped on a patch of mud and soiled her freshly laundered dress. Papa had been frightened to lose his daughter in what was reputed to be a haunted woods. So it came to pass that Papa dragged a sobbing Tory to a clearing, sat himself firmly on a tree stump and pulled his little girl directly across his knee. It was so ordinary an event that the sparrows never interrupted their squawking, the creek kept spluttering along the edge of the forest and the squirrels leaped from branch to branch. Her muffled entreaty for compassion impressed no one, not even Papa, who while still clenching the pipe between his teeth, lifted Tory's dress, lowered her bloomers all the way and applied at least a dozen slow and very resolute slaps to her bare bottom. The girl's soft sobbing faded into the rustle of the leaves caught by a maverick breeze, and the two figures resumed their morning constitutional. A fly alit on the old woman's bun, and as she swatted it, the barrette securing her hair fell to the ground with a clatter. Her severe coiffure tumbled to her waist in cascades of silver and light brown. She reached down for the barrette and it was then she heard a more boisterous conversation. As she peered over the top of her half-lenses, she could see even further down the garden path and well into the woods. The girl's voice was shrill and drawn out, her diction bloated by unnecessary vowels. The lady on the bench heard the blossoming woman-child, wail, "Dzzzaaadddddyyy!!! Cummm awn!!! You can't dewwwwww this!!" The look on Daddy's face indicated that there was a cloud over the twosome, despite the searing noonday sun starkly lining the chiaroscuro forest floor. The woman squinted hard and presently saw the source of the crisis -- a package of Lucky Strikes. Vicky, decked out in her green and white cheering sweater and pleated green skirt was nearly camouflaged from view. Daddy had his shirtsleeves rolled up for what he must accomplish. He wiped the sweat from his brow and drew his bare forearm across his neatly clipped black mustache. Vicky was pleading with her stolidly built father, not even aware she was doing a mordant dance of contrition. She was pleading for mercy, but she was about to experience justice. "Sixteen is STILL too young, and you have been warned," his tenor knifed through the humid air. "Dzzzzadddddyyyy!! Sixteen is too OLD for this!" she argued, to no avail. Their heated jumble of words made no sense, but the woman was able to deduce that the girl, overly proportioned for her age, was being spared the indignity of a punishment inside the manor house. Vicky did not succumb easily, but Daddy, an engineer, methodically performed as he must. He slowly unfurled the black leather belt from his wide-hipped trousers and propelled his errant daughter toward a low fence separating the woods from the meadow, where the teenager could easily have outrun her father. But now she was imprisoned between him and the fence. By the elbow he took her and raised his foot onto the first rail. Up he lifted the skirt, reaching to unclasp the barrette from the girl's ponytail and pin her skirt to her sweater. Down squirmed the cheerleaders' shorts and, inevitably, the scanty panties the girls all wore that year. Daddy folded the belt into its favorite configuration, leaned into the girl's side and commenced the whipping with a crack and a shriek, strapping the milky white buttocks of his beloved charge until until the choreography of punishment brought tears to her eyes and a heaviness to Daddy's heart. He stood her up, brushed the hair back along her tear-stained kewpie face and kissed her forehead. Then Daddy bent over to pull up the panties and shake out the blades of grass and help re-dress her grievances. Arm around her shoulder, they proceeded apace around the bend and toward the rest of the day. When the woman awoke from her midafternoon nap, the sky had darkened. The giggling of a coy mistress and the baritone of an Edwardian gentleman drew her attention back to Burnem Woods, but now the trees were fuzzy, seemingly moving. But what occurred there was still as clear to her as a clarion in a convent, for what her eyes could not quite see, what her ears could not quite hear, her heart could behold. Victoria, in flowing skirt of burlap, carried the picnic basket. But as the lovers opened it upon a blanket in the woods, Master found that Mistress had forgotten the wine. They were left, in a sense, with a mere loaf of bread and each other. He pulled the loose-limbed colt to her feet, waggled his finger in front of her face as if remonstrating with a toddler and slapped the back of her hand. She turned her face upward to catch the first fat drops of an afternoon shower and implored the heavens to spare her. But Master had already loosened his polka dot cravat and corralled his young charge toward an equally young and thin apple tree. He pulled her arms around the trunk and secured her hands to the bark with his neckwear. A quick yank of the silk cloth produced a tiny "ooh" from the lady, and she was going nowhere. Master looked down on the forest floor, taking his time as the sun disappeared, until he found a suitable switch. >From behind her, he untied the strings of her skirt and pushed it down. He bade her take two steps to free herself from the burlap pooled at her feet, then he repeated the downtugging of her half slip. When Master saw the linen that swaddled her hips, his heart filled and his stallion reared. He flicked the stays and parted the fabric to bare his lovely's peachlike bottom. The switch tapped between her lithe thighs. Victoria, surprisingly, had long since stopped protesting. She lay her face against the rough bark, grabbed the tree trunk tightly and took in a measure of breath she hoped would steady her. Unwavering in his obligation Master administered the switching due a careless mistress, drawing arrows of red across her quivering behind. Her bashful eyelids could not contain the outpouring of cleansing tears, but the lady did not embarrass herself. It was, she nodded in the middle of her chastisement, a well deserved whipping. The rain fell harder and the sky darkened. The old woman could feel the two lovers in their embrace outside the log cabin that marked the center of this enchanted forest. The first sky- fracture of lightning drove them inside the lodging, empty save for a large, curtained, four-poster bed taking up most of the right side of the dirt floor. To the left was a Franklin stove and a small kitchen area. They kissed at the door. As Master pulled away, while still clasping hands with his mistress, he nodded in the direction of the cooking area. Victoria swayed sadly but suggestively toward the utensil rack, but instead of fetching an instrument with which to cook, she pulled from the wall a whip. A martinet, in fact. A short stocky handle with 24 leather thongs blossoming forth to flog every crevice of mortal sin and tickle every fold of fleshy delight. They undressed at opposite ends of the cabin and met in the middle. They kissed deeply, tongues entwined, loins in teasing friction. "It is time," he proclaimed, nibbling her left earlobe. Mistress turned to face the closed front door and raised her arms high above her head, thrusting her firm breasts upward, her nipples already at attention. Master stretched to his full 6- foot-4 and pulled a short length of hemp from between a crack in the low ceiling. He felt along the beams for the hook and secured a tight loop of rope to it. With Mistress on tiptoe, she assisted him in securing her hands with the free end of rope. Master examined the whip, though he had no cause to. He was merely prolonging what could wait no longer. The first stroke of penance cracked across the back of her soft shoulders simultaneously with the thunder of a million angels finding solace in the eternal cause of Eros. Master whipped her hard. Master whipped her softly. Master curled every thong of leather around her outermost curves and her innermost possessions. Never would he draw blood nor leave a corporal signature on Victoria's abiding beauty. When it was over, not an inch of her skin below the neck had been left untouched by the dragging, teasing and coaxing of the whip. Not a cell on her smooth back and round buttocks had escaped the exquisite inscription of correction and possession. Not a blossom of her front side had gone unkissed by leather, from the top of her heaving bosoms to the inner curves of her thighs, and everything in between. By the time they had finished making love on, in and around the fourposter, not a trace of remorse would mar Victoria's statuesque torso and certainly none would inhabit her soul. After a draft of sleep that only lovers can know, Master and Victoria walked exalted from the cabin into the next morning's sunshine and back to the manor. They lingered where the path re-entered the formal garden and each, as was their custom, stopped to pat the smiling stone countenance of the statue sitting upon the throne of her bench. ###