Q: So did you do what he asked you to?
Olivia
: Yes. I think my arms were trembling but I made the leap of
faith. I lifted my arms and wrapped them around the nylon cord so
they were extended out in both directions. Then, he immediately
told me he was going to beat the dirt right out of me and that he
was going to teach me not to be a naughty little voyeur. I should
have run away right there but, in retrospect, his words really
turned me on. I had watched the sensual intensity in the way he
used the carpet beater on the rugs and it seemed like there was
just a whole world of emotion simmering underneath the violence. I
turned my head back toward him as he went into the house. I still
remember the sound of the screen door smacking loudly against the
frame of the house. In a matter of seconds, he strutted back out
with the carpet beater in his hand. It was the same one he had used
the day before. It was a long wicker thing with a simple woven
design at its end.
He approached me quickly and didn’t give me
any time to prepare really. He just told me he was going to beat
the dirt out of me and I suddenly felt the harsh sting of the
carpet beater strike my butt. It hurt like hell, even over the
thickness of my jeans and I gasped in pain. He whipped it across my
butt several more times and each time I could hear the whisking
sound of it as it flew through the air. When it struck me, a cloud
of dust was sent from the fabric of my jeans and quickly blew away
in the brisk breeze. All I could think was how insane this moment
was. He was beating me like a carpet and I kept my arms entwined in
the nylon cord like I was supposed to be beaten like a carpet.
Q: Did he say anything?
Olivia
: The first few times, no. He just did it. I had never been
spanked for real up to this point, expect for just playing around
sexually with boyfriends. This was for real. It hurt like hell, but
I just gripped the cord in the palms of my hands to bear it. I
never turned around or tried to resist. After he whipped it across
my butt a few times, he started repeating: “I’m going to teach you
how to get the dirt out, young lady.” He said it over and over. Not
only did it make me realize that he didn’t even know my name but
that he was obsessed in some deep way about getting the dirt out of
what should be clean. I had talked to him briefly at our first
meeting about his ex-wife and daughter but he didn’t really seem
like he wanted to provide intimate details about what happened.
There was something about the carpet beating, I think, that helped
him vent his emotions or relieve some deeper pain inside of
him.
Q: How many times did he strike you with
it?
Olivia
: Probably ten times, and then he paused for a moment. I had
gasped in pain each time that he did it but it definitely felt like
just a preparation for something more intense. When he stopped, I
glanced back at him but I didn’t say anything. The whole experience
felt so cathartic, like words didn’t matter. When I looked back at
him, he seemed to be just examining his work. It was as if he was
seeing if he got all the dirt out. Then, he suddenly approached me
and quickly reached around my waist. He immediately started
unbuttoning my jeans. I should have been shocked, but like I said,
it was all so strange for me to be out there in the middle of
nowhere. I think my mind had been so trained, from living in the
city, to always think about what others thought of me rather than
what was actually happening to me. I don’t know. I brought a lot of
emotional baggage to the moment as well. I was so stressed at work
and with my own relationship that I desired some kind of extreme
release. Maybe all the stars were aligned to make it happen how it
did.
Q: And how did it happen?
Olivia
: He unbuttoned my jeans, button by button, and then pulled
them down to my thighs. I mean he did it really, really quickly and
in a rough sort of way. He certainly wasn’t concerned about how I
felt about it or about being delicate. I was still wearing my
leather chaps which must have made the whole thing seem so graphic.
I mean they were belted around my waist and covered the lengths of
my legs, but they are made in such a way that if you happen not to
be wearing anything else, only your bare ass and bare front is left
uncovered. But he could only pull down my jeans to the middle of my
thighs without stopping to take them all the way off so he just
tugged them down as far as they would go.
There was a brief moment of silence while he
reached to pick up the carpet beater again. It gave me time to
realize the insanity of the situation. I mean I could have just
slipped my arms out of the cords and run away, but I didn’t. I
waited for him. It occurred to me how we were in this together. It
was not so much that there was a deep connection between the two of
us as much as we each had an uncontrollable urge to participate in
the act. I know that sounds crazy…to participate in the beating of
my bare ass in the middle of the Australian Outback, but that’s
what it was. We needed it deeply beyond any reasonable
explanation.
Q: So did he give it to you?
Olivia
: Yes. He told me that he was “going to beat the dirt right
out of my body.” It was pure mental delusion but I just listened to
his words like I was watching a movie. He wasted no time in
beginning the act. The first time I felt the sting of the hard
wicker against my bare bottom, my body flinched and convulsed.
Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead immediately. It was
intense. I knew that old-fashioned Australians had punished their
kids with these things, but I was shocked by the pain. I felt like
some kind of martyr. Each time he whipped it across the thickness
of my bare butt, the woven end of it struck both of my butt cheeks
at the same time with a vicious force. After the first one, I
gasped loudly in pain. After the next couple, I cried out from the
pain and started mumbling to myself how badly it hurt. After the
fifth or sixth stroke, tears began to stream down my cheeks and I
was wailing in pain. I literally screamed out but it didn’t matter.
There was no one there to hear my cries except for him. I began to
scream at the top of my lungs because I knew that there was not a
single person who was going to come, not a single soul who would
arrive and ask me why I was letting myself be whipped with a carpet
beater by a total stranger.
The crazy thing was, and I don’t know if I
was just hallucinating, but I began to see clouds of dust blowing
off of me each time he struck me. It was probably just the dirt on
the ground or on the carpet beater, but in my frenzied state of
mind, I imagined them coming right off my body. I’m sure I was just
romanticizing his vision of beating the dirt from me, but that’s
what I saw at the time. Of course, sweat was beading from my
forehead and I felt like I was about to faint from the pain, so
perhaps I saw things that were not there at all.
Q: How did it end?
Olivia
: I don’t know how many times he whipped me with the carpet
beater but I think my body started to become limp and I was just
hanging onto the nylon cord with my arms to remain upright. I
remember feeling like I was going in and out of consciousness. I
would close my eyes and then open them again. When I felt an end to
the rhythm he had used in the strokes, I opened them completely
wide. He walked around to the front of me and stood a few inches
from me. He told me that if he catches me again peeping in his
window, he’ll whip me bare. I had so totally submitted to his
ritualistic spanking that I just nodded up and down. He passed from
in front of me as quickly as he had appeared. A few seconds later,
I heard his screen door slam behind me.
I took a few seconds to gather my composure
and then slipped my arms from the nylon cord. There were deep marks
on my skin that circled around the girth of my forearms. I shook
them to try to get the blood to flow back into them as they were
numb. I pulled my jeans back up, buttoned them and slowly walked
back toward my horse. It all felt so unreal despite the real pain
radiating from my butt. The day had hardly begun and here I was
wiping the tears from my eyes after being senselessly whipped by a
wicker carpet beater. I have never told anyone I know about the
remotest detail of that day.
Q: Was that the end of it?
Olivia
: Pretty much. I mean I was only there for a week. When I got
home, I went to the bathroom and immediately pulled down my pants
to look at the results of it all. My butt was not only bright pink
but there were raw red markings from where the edge of the carpet
beater had struck me particularly hard. The skin was raised in
places and welting up. My entire bare ass was warm to the touch and
there was a deep pain that radiated from every inch of
it.
The next day, I examined it again. I was
shocked. My butt was black and blue with bruises. I almost felt
guilty like I had let myself be abused or something. But I couldn’t
stop looking at the marks and running my fingers across my bare
skin. It not only hurt to sit, but I could feel the pain each time
I pulled my pants on and off. It was such a lasting sensation and
that made the experience all the more powerful. I even thought
about riding back out to his property to get another one, but the
one thing that kept me from doing so were the markings. I don’t
know why but I thought it was only proper to wait until they were
gone and my ass looked clean or something. I know that doesn’t make
sense but that’s what I thought. They didn’t heal in time, though,
so I never made it back. The markings and pain were still there
when I sat down in the seat of the plane on my way back to New
York.
Q: How long ago was this?
Olivia
: Last year. I am supposed to go on a trip with a couple
friends to Europe this summer but I haven’t committed to it yet. I
talked to my parents and asked them if that strange man still lived
next to them. They said he did and wanted to know why I was asking.
I’m still undecided if I’m going to go back to Australia this
summer instead. It will be winter there. Not that that matters. I
fantasize about the spanking nearly every week. It was so intense
but I wonder if it was just the serendipity of the situation or
something that got unleashed inside of me. I guess time will
tell.
The Formal
Interview
from Natalie Cinderella
I was the ambitious woman. I was the
breaker-of-all-glass-ceilings woman. I was the single woman. I was
the incorrigibly kinky woman. I was the wild, adventurous,
fly-out-of-town-on-a-limb,
hook-up-in-a-dark-corner-of-the-hotel-bar woman. Absolutely no one
expected me to suddenly get married, much less to a man with three
grown sons.
“
But it was the economy,”
I told everyone. “I
had
to do something.”
At least, that’s the
excuse that I liked to tell people when they asked me how I ended
up in the situation I ended up in and did the things that I did.
Yet, that’s not really being honest. I guess you could say that the
economy was my
enabler
. It made what normally would be considered slightly taboo to
be seen as socially acceptable. Yet, even then, it was only the
façade of my situation that my friends considered socially
acceptable. What I did behind closed doors was as inviolable,
forbidden and naughty as it gets. If they knew about all of that, I
probably would have been paraded as a sex freak on national TV and
branded a slut on AM radio.
Let me give you the basic data on myself
just to get the introduction out of the way.
Name:
Natalie Cinderella
Age
: 28
Occupation
: Hired suburban
housewife.
Personality:
Feisty, flirty, super kinky, always horny,
mischievous, too smart for her own good.
Physical
Description
: Chocolate brown hair, dark
brown eyes, busty, curvaceous,
toned where it matters and curved where it
moves.
Husband:
One.
Prior to meeting my “husband”, I had
resigned myself to the reality that I would never have the family
or the kind of marriage that I had imagined I would have since the
days when we all first imagined our perfect lives in the future. I
had just broken up with another long-term boyfriend who just wasn’t
the man with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. I became
convinced that I was going to spend the remainder of my days as a
single woman living on the fringes of all my married friends’
lives. I would be the one who listened to all their joys, struggles
and complaints while they comforted me with encouraging words about
finding the right man, or setting me up with friends of their
husbands.
Yet, I can’t entirely
blame bad luck for the predicament of being an unmarried woman at
that age. You see, as far back as I can remember, I’ve always had a
certain fatal flaw that has been my downfall in choosing men and
staying in relationships. That one little flaw, to put it bluntly,
is that I am insatiably horny. I mean
horny
. As in: hôrnē – 1. Of or
resembling horn 2. Hard and rough. 3. Feeling
great
sexual desire.