A Walk In The Woods

Eslynne Piroska Weaver

& DSH Productions

It was noisy in the woods. Not so noisy as at night, when all the nocturnal insects played their songs, but you could tell it was a living, populated forest. Sara jumped, just a tiny bit, when a bird trilled out its call in the tree right above her, but she wasn't afraid. A quick glance back down the trail assured her all was well – Stephen was close behind her. He winked at her, having seen her flinch at the sound, and she stuck her tongue out, just briefly, before turning forward again with a silly grin on her face.

They walked in silence, listening to the huge, largely unseen world around them, until they reached a wider spot with a large rock half in and and half out of the bushes. Sara paused, looking around, catching her breath, only to squeak when Stephen's large hand covered her bottom. Relaxing into his side she tucked her head against his shoulder, the flannel of his shirt soft against her cheek.

“Looks like as good a place as any,” he said, casually, his fingers squeezing a hair tighter. Sara squirmed, a tiny bit, and her cheeks felt warmer. A little breeze fluttered her hair, and she hid a whimper in Stephen's shoulder. Shifting her around to face him, Stephen cupped her face and gave her a quick kiss, then his hands slid down her body to her jeans. She made no move to stop him as he deftly unbuttoned, unzipped, and slid them down her round hips. She smiled at his grin when he saw the panties she wore – red lace cheeky panties that wrapped her hips in fabric while leaving the lower halves of her bottom cheeks bare. Turning her around he squatted down to inspect the remnants of her punishment only two days before. Sara's hands went to his as he caressed and massaged her full cheeks. “Hands front,” were the only words he said, calmly, but a command is a command and she obeyed, clasping her own hands in front of herself and biting her lip. He glanced up so he could see her face when she answered his next question. “Not too sore still?” She turned her head, looking back at him.

“Not very, but still a little sore.” He stood up.

“That's fine.” Walking around her to the rock, he seated himself comfortably, his left knee cocked higher than his right, and beckoned. Sara shuffled to him, awkward in her half mast jeans. Without being told, she placed herself between his thighs, then reached out for help. He bent her over his left knee, her hips squarely on his thigh, his right calf covering her own calves. Hands in the grass she hoped there were no ants, or spiders, or other creepy crawlies within reaching distance, but the first spank startled her out of the thought. Hard and heavy, she cried out, and again, and twice more. The burn had already started, and the soreness was fully in evidence. Those were her warm up. Stephen began the spanking now, much lighter and faster than the first four. Starting with the very top of her bottom, he alternated sides as he spanked her, quickly coloring her pale bottom with red hand prints. Gradually he spanked lower and lower until his hand was covering the sweet spot between buttock and thigh with each blow. Sara squealed and kicked frantically, gasping with each new application of his hand, remembering the last punishment, and how it had focused on that same area. But he wasn't done. Stephen continued down her thighs with the same fast tempo until she started to cry out, moaning with pain. Finally, he paused. Sara knew better than to ask if he was done – so she tried to catch her breath, clutching the broken bits of grass in her fists, stilling her feet, which for all their frantic motion had not escaped the confines of his leg. His hot hand cupped her hotter bottom, sliding up from her thigh to the apex and back down the other side, up and down again, and she whimpered. Inserting two fingers into the top of her panties, he slid them down, watching her shudder but not protest as the lace scraped over her raw skin.

“Discipline does you good,” he mused.

“It does,” Sara agreed, staring at the ground, but flinched to remember the pain that accompanied straying from a disciplined path.

“You know this is not a punishment?” he queried, noting her flinch.

“I know.”

“Do you know what it is?” She nodded at the earth. “Tell me,” he coaxed.

“An exercise in submission.” She could picture his smile as he patted her bottom gently.

“Good girl,” was all he said, but it was all he needed to say. She lay still, obedient, as he started again at the top of her bottom, and spanked, hard and fast, painting a second layer of red to match the lace over the first until her whole bottom flamed with pain and she was crying freely.

They walked slower this time. He'd pulled her into his lap and dried her tears, stroking her back until she calmed. When it was time to move on he'd pulled her panties and pants back up for her, and she'd whimpered quietly, but that was all. They walked arm in arm, listening to each other's breath and the sounds around them. It was not the first exercise in submission Sara had been through since they'd been married, and she was sure it wouldn't be the last. She did not enjoy the pain, but she did enjoy the quiet time, the peace of knowing she was with the one who valued her the most, who would lead and encourage, and, when needed, correct or punish. She did not enjoy the harshness of jeans on a freshly spanked bottom, but she did enjoy the lingering reminder that she belonged to someone who loved her. She leaned into Stephen and moaned when he squeezed her bottom, again, and he started her walking again with a sharp slap to her seat.

After another hour they came to a mossy area with a stream down the middle, burbling over many rocks, sticks and debris. Squatting down to see if there were fish they enjoyed the wilderness together, and the purpose of the outing began to lose focus for Sara. Stephen noticed before she did, and stopped speaking to smile at her. When she realized his silence her own voice trailed off, and her face began to flame.

“Again?” she asked, and he nodded, still smiling at her. Her lower lip trembled – it was almost invariable that he decided she needed to remember how to submit after a particularly hard or overdue punishment. And perhaps it was more effective, to endure so many spankings when she was still sore from the punishment. She dropped her head in acquiescence, and her hands went to her jeans. He stopped her with a finger on her wrist.

“Not yet.” She looked up, uncertain, then with trepidation took the pocket knife he handed her. Her lip trembled again. It was no toy, this pocket knife. Stephen was an avid camper. It would cut a switch quite easily. Too easily. She looked around, looking for the sort of tree that he would like, something springy and flexible but not too fragile. He helped, pointed out a young tree near the water. She went, standing under and looking at the leaves just starting to turn and realized there were many small branches within reach. Stretching up she made her choice – switchings were not overly common but he'd taught he what he wanted. A relatively straight branch, strong and healthy looking, about the width of her ring finger. She cut it, then awkwardly cut the leaves and little side branches from it, her face burning hotter with each knife movement. When she had it as smooth as possible – taking as long possible – she turned it around in her hands, looking for any other imperfection to delay the inevitable. Glancing up she saw Stephen's knowing smile and hurriedly came back to him, presenting the closed knife and the fresh switch.

“Thank you,” he said, then pulled her in for a hug. “You'll do fine,” he told her confidently, and Sara nodded shakily. He led her to a uprooted tree, fallen in the last storm, that they had passed a few minutes back, and kissed each of her palms before laying them on the rough trunk. “Don't let go,” he told her, and she swallowed her fear, trusting the man beside her. He tugged on the jeans just a little, nudging her booted feet further part, easing the fabric over her out-thrust behind. Stepping back, he measured the distance, laying the switch against her bottom gently, and Sara flinched. He smiled, just a little, and pulled his arm back.

Swishing the branch through the cool air it cracked on her bottom with a resounding retort. Sara jerked and shrieked, but did not let go of the downed tree. Using the momentum from the rebound he reversed direction and snapped it against her jeans again. Again, and again, and again, until she had been striped a dozen times over her jeans, and her heartfelt wailing was all he could hear.

“Stand up,” he told her, and she started to plead with him. It was nothing he hadn't heard before. He knew if he stopped now it wouldn't have the effect it needed on her frame of mind. The opposite, in fact, if she could make him stop when she wanted, rather than when he chose.

“Take down your jeans.” The calmly inflexible command brought tears, but she obeyed, a lesson he wanted to drive home. “Good girl,” he said, loving her, watching her push the pants to her ankles. It pulled her legs closer together, but she had to reach so far down to the tree that it mattered little. Below the edge of the lace panties he could see the lines from the switch and was pleased how well they showed up against the fading red from her earlier spanking. “Back over again,” he said, and she gripped the bark, her tears dripping onto her hands.

After inspecting the switch for any damage Stephen raised it again, and the swish sounded louder, the crack sharper. Sara keened, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, tossing her head with the pain. He waited until she stilled, just a bit, and brought it down on her unprotected bottom again. Each time it took a little longer for her to still, but he let her try to shake away the pain, knowing she couldn't truly escape it. A full dozen later her bottom was covered in stripes, and her misery had reached a high pitch. Stephen came forward, a hand on her back stroking, soothing, comforting, the switch laid aside for a moment. But his voice was just as inflexible as before.

“Stand up.” Sara shook her head, knowing it was a mistake, but unable to help herself. His palm cracked down on her bottom, hard, twice, and she shot up, her hands darting back to cover herself. He stopped her, gathered her wrists into one big hand and tsked at her. “You know better, Sara,” he said, and she hung her head, but couldn't stop the shifting of her weight, the bouncing of her hips. He smiled and slapped her blazing bottom again, once on each cheek, before releasing her hands. “Take your panties down.” Sara sobbed as she obeyed, trying to hold the fabric away from her welted skin. It wasn't that it had covered much of anything. It was the ritual of his switchings. “Back over again.” Fingers hovering a safe distance from her skin she could still feel the heat. Even so, she obeyed. He watched her fingers dig into the rough bark to hold tighter, her back curve up to try to minimize his target, her buttocks clench and unclench as he picked up the switch. He stroked her back. “Arch for me,” he told her, and she again obeyed, opening her sweet spot more. “Relax. Almost over. Submit to me, Sara,” he soothed, and she cried harder, but he saw her muscles still and loosen. He trailed the switch down her swollen flesh, then stepped back, measuring again. She tensed again, and his voice reminded her to submit.

Drawing back the switch he striped her sweet spot, and Sara screamed. Hard and fast he switched higher a few strokes and then lower, down her thighs and back to the sweet spot. A dozen complete, he stepped closer, caught her hands as they jerked back beyond her conscious control and gathered them against the small of her back. Six more, lighter than the rest – but they didn't need to be hard – he flicked against the top of her thighs and the bottom of her buttocks. Her open mouthed cries were wordless with misery.

Stephen tossed the tattered switch aside and sat on the truck, gathering her into his arms. Awkwardly she pulled her pants over her knees and knelt in front of him, her bottom hurting far to much to sit, and hugged him tightly, wetting his shirt with her tears. Soothing her he praised her obedience, despite the difficulty.

“I want to obey,” she cried, rubbing her eyes with her sleeves, blowing her nose on the handkerchief he extracted from a cargo pant pocket.

“Shh,” he soothed her, “I know, Sara. I know. You're a good girl,” he told her, and she calmed, settling into his embrace. “You did well. I'm proud of you.” She smiled though her tears and turned up her face for a kiss. Fingers on her chin he obliged, taking over her offering and marking her as his own.

Eslynne Piroska Weaver

DSH Productions