Winner of the ‘Story of US’ Writing Contest

For the contest entrants,


This month’s writing contest was less about challenging your writing skills and ability to research, and more about encouraging you to use your imaginations. I am pleased to say that I received several very imaginative entries and that you have exceeded my expectations once more. Some funny, some saucy, and some serious…I’ve enjoyed all your stories greatly and am pleased to share them with other readers here.  
As always, if I could choose every story, every month, I would. 
Keep writing and sharing…there will be more contests and many more chances to receive your Dana Kane spanking.


With gratitude,
Dana

MY KIND OF STRANGE*


Dana is a professional disciplinarian. She has short, straight black hair and dark blue eyes that always remind me of the “violet” color in Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes. She’s slender, with curves in all the right places.
We met at a bdsm party at ***. I had been intrigued by her look, including some impressive ink on her arms, and her energy, but never had the opportunity to talk to her.
I was on my morning run on Venice beach and there she was taking her surf board off the roof of her car. I stopped to ask if her name was Dana. You look familiar. She nodded, smiling at me until I asked the next appropriate question: “Were you at the *** party last Friday?”
It turned out that she had noticed me and was curious why I hadn’t made the effort to meet her at the party. Now, with her standing directly in front of me and giving me such an evil smirk, I felt drawn to find out for myself. I finally made the first move, inviting her over for breakfast when she was finished surfing. I pointed out my apartment building, gave her the number, and jogged off, feeling her eyes on me as I sprinted to the corner.
I’d gotten cleaned up by the time she arrived and, still in her wet suit, asked if she could shower while I finished getting breakfast ready. I heard her singing over the sound of the water. What would she wear when she got out of the shower? Would she put his wetsuit back on? Or wear a towel?
I was pouring orange juice into glasses she strode into my living room, surprising me. That’s what my friend Georgia had said about her, Dana was always full of surprises. She wasn’t wearing a towel. She wasn’t wearing her wet suit. She wasn’t wearing the robe from the back of the bathroom door. She was wearing one of my blue oxford cloth button down shirts with a pair of my black satin boxers.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, moving toward me, that evil-seductive grin still on her face.



I shook my head. “No, knock yourself out.” I wondered what she would do next, and I suddenly realized that I was starting to perspire from wondering.
“I couldn’t resist,” she said, sitting on the edge of my couch and staring at me. My apartment is small, with the dining room and living room together, separated only by the sofa. My hand was still on the forgotten orange juice container, my entire body was frozen in place.
I watched as she ran her fingertips along one of her long, slender legs. Her legs looked good, sexy, her body was very pale against the black silk boxers. I took a step toward her, thinking that I wanted to take the place of her hands, I wanted to run my fingertips along her legs.
“There’s something erotic…” she started to say, looking at her reflection in the mirrored panels around my fireplace, “…something sexy about opposite sex lingerie.”
I got up my nerve to walk all the way to her side and once there I settled myself next to her on the couch. I reached out to touch the silky material and she leaned back against the cushions and grabbed my wrist before I could make contact. “Since I’m wearing yours why don’t you slip in to these”, holding out a tiny pink thong trimmed in lace.
I couldn’t believe how turned on I was at seeing this woman in my underwear and quite frankly, would have jumped out of the window if she’d asked. As I high-tailed it to the bedroom to change, she called after me, “and bring that hair brush that’s on your dresser.”
I returned to the living room and stood behind the sofa, my hands trembling, I hand her the brush, and wait.
She took the brush and examined it. It is old. The wood polished smooth as silk. The handle worn soft with use, the light bristles set into the dark wood. Turning her face, she strokes the bristles through her hair, leaving a path of obsidian, shining brilliantly in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the window. I touch her hand. I reach for the brush. Desire winning the battle over fear, I take the brush. Beautiful. Terrifying. Love and hate mingling in my heart as the wood presses into the palm. I lay the soft bristles to her hair, drawing them slowly down, bringing a brilliant shine to her lustrous locks. 

As I begin another stroke, she raises her hand to mine. She takes the brush in her hand and gently pulls me around the couch towards her, guiding me between her spread legs, facing her. Slowly she lays the soft bristles against my chest as my hands fall to my sides. I tremble as the touch sends tingles of electricity through my body. She traces the brush around my nipple, the tingling spreading throughout my body. I am floating in the sensations. My head light with pleasure. I feel her touch being withdrawn, leaving an aching desire, an emptiness in my chest.. Her finger traces down my chest and over my stomach, hooking it in the waistband of the thong. She tugs gently, then slowly pulls the panties down to my ankles. Her eyes move slowly up and down my body.

I gasp and look down at her questioningly. She slides the fabric of the shirt tails up, revealing her naked thighs. I step to her side. I stumble, hobbled by my panties but quickly step out of them and stand by her left thigh. “Get over my lap,” she says in a sweet but insistent tone. Seizing my wrist again, she tugs me forward and bends me over her lap, settling me across her thighs. She runs her hand over my ass.
Her firm thighs support my body, as I lay myself before her. The rays of sun fall across my body, warming it, however a chill settles in my stomach as I feel her gentle touch on my naked buttocks. I feel her palm moving over my bottom, tracing small circles over the bare skin. The hunger surges up once more, fighting its way ahead of the chilling fear. I feel her thigh pressing against me. I push myself against her, moving my hips forward against her leg. I feel her touch vanish, once again leaving me empty, desolate. I pull back, raising my hips, aching for her touch. Wanting. Waiting.
Rubbing gently, caressing the backs of my thighs, her fingers play up the crevice between my cheeks, and slide down between my thighs. I open my legs, exposing myself to her, and she strokes my inner thighs with her fingertips. I draw a shuddering breath, and she lets her fingers trail up between my cheeks again. I raise my hips, offering myself to her. She lets her finger play over my bottom’s sit spot and I shudder again. Her fingertip traces around the sensitive skin, I twitch slightly. Very gently she draws her fingernail over it and I moan softly. “Please…” I whisper. She lets her finger trail down between my thighs once more, tickling the back of my legs. Slowly she withdrew her hand and I feel the hairbrush rest on my buttocks.
The smacking sound of contact, wood against skin echoes loudly. The sharp sting spreads quickly through my left buttock. My breath comes out in a soft gasp. Another smack accompanies a matching sting in my right buttock. My eyes close. The crack of wood against flesh fills my ears. The burning sting builds in my bottom. I shift, desperate for the sensations to cease. And with equal desperation, willing them to continue. The sting continues to build, as the terrible brush rises and falls like clockwork. It is too much. I thrust forward once more, knowing she can feel the stiffness against her thigh, but desperate to escape the stinging fire raining down on my bottom. As her soft skin brushes mine, a new desperation seizes me. I draw back, raising my hips to meet the next painful assault of the terrible, wonderful wood. The pain burns through my backside, as a new fire ignites in front. Again and again, I thrust forward, and back, meeting the fiery spanks above. As the heat builds, it mingles, until it is indistinguishable. The pain and the agonizing pleasure, all becoming one. The exquisite agony throbs through my body. Gasping as the pain and ecstasy rage through me, the crack of the brush coming faster, harder.
I collapse over her lap, breathing heavily. The wood, smooth, and soft, touching my skin. After a moment she puts the hairbrush down on the sofa. She raises her left hand, and I tense in anticipation. She brings it down with a sharp smack. I gasp, another smack, and another. I squirm, and as I raise my hips, smack, again and again. 

The sting is beginning to build in my backside now, but her left hand works deftly, Smack, smack, smack, smack, I am whimpering now, bucking wildly as she spanks me faster and faster. Smack smack smack smack… I moan and gasp. Smack smack smack smack smack smack…
Then just as suddenly as it started, it’s over. I collapse once more over her lap, panting. She rubs my tender cheeks which are bright pink from the stinging slaps. I lie still with eyes closed for several moments, breathing deeply, then slowly push myself up.
“Naughty boy,” she said, moving back, after we collapsed together on the sofa. I leaned my head against her chest and confessed to knowing about her, knowing that she liked things in the extreme. Confessed my curiosity. She smiled that devilish smile and stroked my hair away from my eyes. Then she cradled my head in her hands and said, “what do you expect when you invite a strange woman into your apartment…?”.
My kind of strange.


*Story inspired by “Whose Panties” by Allison Tyler