ATONEMENT
by
C. Lakewood
It was a beautiful spring day, made even nicer by the fact
that I'd just dropped off my last set of grades. I was looking
forward to some Chinese take-out, a beer or two, and the Cubs
game on TV -- as a good beginning to three months' vacation.
Sophie, my wife, who was principal of a different high school,
had finished up yesterday and was doing brunch today with some
chums.
When I got home, though, I was greeted by a series of
surprises. First, Sophie was already home; she'd apparently
parked in the garage, rather than leaving her car out for me
to put away as she usually does. (I love my wife. She can be
wonderfully passionate, witty, and capable...but I'd be less
than honest if I didn't add that she was often -- maybe more
often than not -- arrogant, lazy, manipulative, thoughtless,
and self-absorbed. I suspect that all these traits -- good
and bad -- derive at least in part from her Gallic heritage.
We've been married for seven years -- one wonderful, one good,
two or three fair, and the rest spiraling downward. At one
time we were arguing a lot, but I'd learned just to shut up
and give her what she wanted: her own way. Still, I wondered
how much longer I could put up with it.)
The second surprise this afternoon was that she was huddled,
pale and trembling, on the couch.
"I'm in BIG trouble," she nervously blurted out. That was
the third surprise. The story came out hesitantly from her
normally highly articulate lips. It seems that she'd had a
number of champagne cocktails with brunch, and, rather tipsy,
she'd broadsided a neighbor's parked car, then panicked, driven
off (about 35 yards), and hidden her car in our garage.
But the neighbor, Mr. Ishimoto, had witnessed the whole thing
and, within moments, had showed up at our front door. He had a
tape recorder and a cell phone with him and demanded that either
she record a full confession (in which case the matter might be
handled "discreetly"), or he would call the police....
"And...oh, god...I'd be booked on a DUI hit-and-run and spend
the night in jail. There'd be a trial...publicity...notoriety....
The cost'd be thousands in fines and legal fees and insurance
premiums.... I'd probably lose my job...AND my license...for who
knows how long.... So I confessed! And he wants to see you...to
get your permission, I guess...before he tells me what I have to
do...."
I had a nodding acquaintance with old man Ishimoto, and he'd
always seemed so polite and Buddha-like. It was hard to imagine
him browbeating my normally assertive and self-assured wife.
(Truth be told, perhaps I was a bit envious.) In any case, I put
my duck-and-mushrooms in the fridge, sighed, and walked down the
street to talk things over with my elderly neighbor.
******************************
A couple of hours later, I walked back more slowly, my stomach
full of Kobe beef and 12-year-old single malt, and my mind full of
interesting ideas. I was carrying a large, flat cardboard box.
I explained things to Sophie in stages: she was to strip naked,
put on the outfit that Mr. Ishimoto was supplying, and walk down to
his house to atone for her irresponsibility. She had half an hour
to comply.
She was surprised and annoyed that the box held a classic
Japanese schoolgirl's uniform: white sailor blouse with dark blue
trim, dark blue neckerchief, and dark blue skirt. It had belonged
to Ishimoto's daughter, some years ago. He didn't have the shoes
or socks, so he included a pair of woven straw flip-flops (which
he called "zori"). There was also a tiny pair of cream-colored
bikini panties (but no bra).
Sophie's customary arrogance was beginning to return, and
she snorted with disdain at the prospect of having to wear
those clothes. But, when I reminded her of the alternative,
she gathered up the uniform and flounced off to the bedroom to
change.
******************************
Not quite fifteen minutes later, she re-emerged, somewhat
nervously. Sophie is 31 years old, 5'2", about 114 lbs., and
32A-24-33. Her torso must have been about the same size as the
daughter's, for the middy-blouse fit well enough, but Sophie's
legs were obviously the longer by 2 or 3 inches, because the skirt
was scandalously short. It was so short, in fact, that I had no
trouble discovering that she was wearing a pair of her own panties.
Mr. Ishimoto's house was not far, and there was nobody about,
but Sophie was very self-conscious -- especially since we were
made to wait several minutes on the tiny front porch. Moreover,
when he did open his door, he made her curtsey...several times,
until she did it to his satisfaction. Only then did he let us
enter.
Ishimoto was a man of relatively indeterminate age -- 50s, I
guessed -- stocky, well-groomed, perhaps 5'6", and dressed for
the occasion in a scarlet and gold kimono. He was prototypically
inscrutable. His face didn't change when he saw the panties
Sophie was wearing, but...well, the shift in ambiance was
practically palpable.
He nodded to me and said, "Your pardon." Then he said to her,
"You will take off that offensive garment immediately."
(Actually, he said something almost like, "You wirr take off
that offensive garment immediat'ry." But his accent was so slight,
and I became accustomed to it so quickly, that I'm not going to
try to reproduce it here. The reader may infer it -- or not, as
he prefers.)
She knew exactly what garment he was referring to. I was
astonished that she didn't give him an argument, but, after
the briefest hesitation, blushingly slipped her panties off
and held them out to him.
Adroitly, he grasped her extended wrist and sat down on the
sofa, pulling her across his lap in the process. He spanked her
bare bottom vigorously for two or three minutes, during which
time she kept herself under surprisingly good control. He
glanced at me, and I nodded. Then, abruptly, he skewered her
cunt with two thick fingers. (He seemed to have no trouble at
all, suggesting that her juices were already flowing.) Sophie
gasped and closed her thighs...too late. He withdrew his hand
and held it up, displaying his glistening, gooey fingers. Then
he pushed her to her feet. Red-faced amd sniffling, she again
offered him the contraband panties.
He shook his head. "I do not want them. Carry them in your
hand back to your house and leave them there. Shave your crotch
bare. Carry the panties that you were supposed to wear back here.
You have 15 minutes. I advise you not to be late." He looked at
his watch. "Go!"
She didn't waste time. I tossed her the keys, and she went.
******************************
Eighteen minutes later, as Ishimoto and I sat drinking and
chatting about what was to come, there was a timid knock on the
door.
He let her in and took his daughter's panties from her hand.
"You are late. Take off your clothes."
"All?" she quavered.
"Of course, you silly girl."
When she was naked, he made her stand in the middle of the
room, legs apart and hands on head, elbows back and tits thrust
forward. She was shivering and sweating, and her nipples were
as stiff and erect as I could ever remember them. The redness
from the hand-spanking had faded, I noticed in passing, but, as
she slowly turned in a circle, my gaze was caught and held by
her now smooth and hairless cunt.
When Ishimoto caressed her crotch, she moaned and almost
collapsed. "Please, sir...," she said, softly.
"Ah, so you like this," he said, probing her.
"N-nooo, please...sir...."
"Earlier today, you promised not only to obey orders, but also
to tell the truth. So...do you like this?"
"Y-yes...sir," she whispered.
He took his hand away, and she whimpered. "You are a bad
little girl, and we are not here to pleasure you, but to punish
you," he reminded her. "Bend over and touch toes. Keep your
feet apart. Yes."
Opening an ornate, black-lacquered cabinet that turned out to
be filled with a variety of interesting implements, he selected
what appeared to be a whisk broom made of horsehair. He nodded
in my direction again and began delivering a flurry of very light,
stinging strokes all over -- and between -- Sophie's buttocks, just
by flicking his wrist. When her butt was a pleasant pink all over,
he paused a moment to survey his work. I was impressed.
It was just a warm-up for the real caning yet to come, but....
Her writhing butt-cheeks were parted, and her asshole was twitching
-- as if asking for something more. She was whimpering softly
(more in lust than in pain) and rubbing her thighs together (as if
to soothe the terrible itch that was growing there. I'd seen her
"in heat" often in the past (though not lately), and I knew exactly
what it was that she craved now. Well, it wouldn't hurt her to
wait a while. I had an epic hard-on myself...but I was more used
to frustration and denial.
After a bit, he placed a rawhide chew-toy between her teeth
and warned her not to drop it. (She nodded.) Then he picked
up a slender cane, flexed the supple rattan to an astonishing
degree, positioned himself carefully, and began laying a series
of stripes, meticulously timed and perfectly placed, across
Sophie's rounded ass.
Up to that point, it had all been, essentially, foreplay.
But, when the cane started falling on her upturned rump, it
became PAIN. Sophie uttered a sound that was half-whinny
and half-snort (almost losing her chew-toy), bent her knees,
arched her back, and dug into the carpet with her bare toes.
I had a momentary impulse to call a halt to it and was in
the process of rising from my chair.... But then I remembered
an occasion, early in our engagement, when I was admiring a pair
of earrings in a shop window, remarking that unfortunately they
were for pierced ears -- and her ears weren't. She made some
sort of disparaging comment (which was somewhat unusual for her
in those days). When I asked her about that later, she told me
that her mother was "something of a feminist" who looked upon
pierced ears as a mark of female submission to men. Back then,
I regarded that notion as merely "quaint" -- not as food for
thought.
Now, however....
Perhaps learning what submission was really all about might
improve her character...or at least her disposition. So once
again I gave thanks that her mother was determined not to budge
from the "très sympathique" environment of French Canada, leaned
back, took another sip of Scotch, and watched the psychodrama
unfold.
******************************
"Stand up," he finally said. "Legs apart. Hands on head, as
before." He took back the chew-toy, which had served its purpose
admirably.
"Please, s-sir.... I'm sor-ree! Have-have m-mercy...."
(Were there tears in her eyes?)
"Admitting your faults is the first step in atonement," he
said, his fingers casually stroking her flanks, tits, and belly.
(She flinched, but only a bit.) "So confess that you are a bad,
irresponsible little girl."
"No! I'm an ADULT! And you're just a dirty old Ja-" (She was
uncommonly sensitive about her youthful appearance.)
He shrugged and stepped toward the telephone. "So you choose
the police, after all...."
"Oh, no! No, wait...please...sir. I-I will admit it: I'm a
bad...irresponsible...little girl!"
"Who needs to be taught her proper place."
She hesitated, and he took another step toward the phone. It
was enough to finish off the rebellion and make her capitulate.
"I'm a bad, irresponsible little girl who needs to be taught
her-her p-proper place...sir."
"Ask me to teach you."
"Please, sir.... Please t-teach me...my proper puh-lace."
"And you will be obedient?"
"I'll be obedient.... Anything you say!"
"I should not have to point out that your husband has been very
patient throughout your punishment -- thus far -- but is in need of
relief. Go kneel at his feet.... Yes. Now, open his trousers and
take out his erection. Yes. Well...go ahead. Take care of him --
and do it slowly and lovingly...."
I found this sudden shift in focus somewhat unsettling. Up to
this point, I had been primarily a passive member of the audience.
Now I was spotlighted center stage. Though I'd known it was
coming, it still put me off, a little.
And Sophie was even less happy with this latest development.
She was prepared to tolerate vaginal intercourse (as long as it
didn't happen too frequently), but she didn't like giving blow
jobs. (She would do it on special occasions, but, of course,
absolutely refused even to contemplate being butt-fucked). She
claimed that giving head was perverted and demeaning (besides
making her gag). As a result, she appeared both surprised and
disgusted at this turn of events. Despite her distaste, however,
she took out my oozing cock and went to work on it with her lips
and tongue.
She even moaned some.
I was adjusting nicely to this unaccustomed treat when I saw
that Ishimoto was kneeling beside Sophie, with a thumb up her
asshole and a couple of fingers up her cunt. And she seemed to
be getting off on it.
I certainly had nothing against threesomes -- though those
I fantasized about usually involved me, Halle Berry, and Heidi
Klum. (Or, if I were in the mood for classics, it would be me,
Ingrid Bergman, and Leslie Caron.) I had never envisioned me,
Sophie, and another man -- ANY other man.
But Sophie was soaring to new heights -- mewling and wriggling
and playing arpeggios on my dick -- so I was able to adjust to this
therapy, too. I knew, however, that the next part would be more
intense and harder to accept.
Ironically, the thought of what that next part would include
pushed me over the edge, and I filled her mouth with cum...which
she swallowed. (Another first!)
When she had completely drained me (and licked her lips!),
Ishimoto extracted his fingers, got to his feet, and told
Sophie to stand in the corner, with her nose against the wall,
while he washed his hands.
She went, meekly and silently, and stood as directed. I
couldn't see her hands, which she was holding at her crotch,
but I suspected that they weren't entirely idle.
He returned a few minutes later, and I knew things were about
to climax (as it were).
He took up a position in the middle of the room and called her
to him. "Now you may thank me properly." He pushed her down onto
her knees and opened the front of his kimono to disclose short,
rather bowed legs, a hairy belly, and, in between, an erection of
decent size -- definitely shorter than average, but maybe a bit
thicker. To my surprise, she sighed and began to suck him off,
going at it passionately, trying to bring him off quickly. At the
same time, however, he was consciously holding his orgasm at bay,
and it was almost twenty minutes before he, too, ejaculated into
her mouth. It was clear that, whatever he might have lacked in
size, he more than made up for in quantity of cum. But she managed
to swallow it all...with difficulty.
(I won't say it was easy watching my wife give another man a
blow job...but it wasn't as hard as I'd anticipated.)
Finally, he let her stand up. "Say 'thank you' and
bow...low," he ordered.
She obeyed, without hesitation.
Afterward, she was allowed to put on the school uniform again
(minus panties, of course) and was sent back to her corner while
Ishimoto and I finished our drinks.
When it was at last time to go, I would have been a lot more
reluctant if I hadn't known there would be sequels...many sequels.
******************************
She was very quiet as we were walking home, and I took that
opportunity to explain that, to repay Ishimoto for the repairs,
she was, in effect, indentured to him for 10 hours a week...for
the next 14 months.
She seemed to be paying only minimal attention to what I was
saying and, at the same time, thinking over something complex
with the rest of her brain.
At length, when we were back inside our own house, all of a
sudden the words came tumbling out of her.
"I feel...violated...a-and...and thrilled. Losing control and
being so humiliated a-and having to...submit to him.... HIM! And
-- oh, god! -- having to KEEP doing it over and over, until I'd
properly atoned...for being such a b-bad girl.... It's so strange,
but I know now that it's what I've needed for a long time. My
damn job...having to be so infallible all the time...the stress
just accumulates, and I've never been able to free myself of it.
I can forget it, once in a while, temporarily...but it always comes
roaring back...too soon. Alcohol helps...some...and tranquilizers,
but I've been afraid of going very far down THAT road. But, then
today...well, I've been relieved of a burden that was crushing me.
I feel...free. I find that, for me, submission...is actually,
well, liberating...."
She smiled up at me wanly. "I hope you can understand that."
"Yes," I said. "I do."
"Good," she grinned. "Because, besides setting me free, it's
also made me unbelievably horny...."
She pulled off the middy-blouse, dropped her skirt, and began
herding me breathlessly toward the bedroom.
******************************
"Maybe," I thought, as I lay in the cool quiet of the pre-dawn,
Sophie, satiated at last, sleeping beside me. Maybe it was as
simple as that. Maybe the death spiral of our marriage was the
result of some sort of Accumulated Stress Syndrome ('ASS' -- ha!),
and things will return to the way they were when we were newlyweds.
But I would be reluctant to bet money on it. She IS her mother's
daughter after all (Zut alors!), so a happy ending might not be in
the cards....
But I can hope.