Physical Read online

  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.

  Yes, I know all women like sex and the occasional late-night drunken kinkiness, but for me, every wandering thought and every inch of my body is saturated with sexual perversion and naughty urges. When I’m at a restaurant, I always check out the waiter. When I get pulled over by a cop, I casually insinuate a sexual favor to get my way out of a ticket. When I’m at the gym, I get hands-on personal training from the most attractive trainer. When I’m at a bar, I always eye other men while talking to a man. When I go to the grocery store, I linger next to random good-loo
king guys until our hands veer towards the same item on the shelf. I just can’t help it. Most women will let it happen in the right circumstances but I make it happen all the time with the most devious words and the most cunning tricks.

  Plus, I not only have an extremely vivid imagination, but I grew up in a strict household in which my father forbade me from dating until I left for college. All those pent-up years of adolescent frustration from not being allowed to touch what I wanted to touch seems to have resulted in endless sexual sparks firing away inside my imagination, from the day I left home to this very minute.

  So, of course, the men who I ended up dating were always the men who I ended up going home with after a drunken night of innuendos and kinky flirtation because, in my mind, the most attractive men were the ones who conjured up images of doing what I felt I was forbidden to do. Even when I’d start to seriously date a man and begin to fall for him, I could never fully extinguish my wandering eye or my desire to explore feelings that were, in some way, forbidden or taboo. When the sex life of my relationship became dull and routine, I simply began to lose interest in the man and would naturally find myself flirting with men with whom I had no right to be flirting.

  I knew that acting like a kinky college girl was only going to last so long, even as I stretched that special phase well into my twenties and beyond. When I lost my job as a director of marketing at the beginning of what would quickly become the great American recession, the reality of my situation soon hit me. After a number of short-term freelance jobs and a freeze on hiring at practically every single company I applied to, the stark truth of trying to make it on my own no longer seemed like it was worth the price I had to pay. No longer was I able to tell myself that I was simply going to be the carefree career woman who would always have her job as an excuse for why she was not yet married. I suddenly realized that I did not want to struggle alone to make it. I no longer wanted to be the lone woman who would not settle for anything but the perfect man.

  So on New Year’s Eve I made my resolution. This year, I told myself, I would get married and have a family. I would leave the kinky thoughts in my head and focus on what matters in life. I hoped that I could find a man who would satisfy me both as a husband and as a sex partner for my endless appetite, but I was firmly committed to finding the man who I would love and live with for the rest of my life.

  After making official visits to the hair salon, the manicurist, the waxing spa and numerous department stores to formally prep myself for the women-looking-for-marriage market, I sat down in front of my computer and began my search. I sent out emails to friends notifying them of my new quest, registered on every relationship website and started browsing social media profiles of every attractive man I could click on. Immediately my phone started to ring with calls from my friends, each of them telling me that they had the perfect guy for me and wanting to know when they could set me up on a blind date. I surrendered to all of their propositions, and so began the quest.

  Yet, three months into it and dozens of awkward hellos and goodbyes later, I had hardly met a man I wanted to see for a second time much less every morning for the rest of my days on earth. I knew my search was going to be difficult but it was becoming painfully obvious how impossible it really was to find love when you are looking for it. So, with my bank account quickly depleting, I decided it might be best to just return to the trenches of the job hunt and put the search for love on the backburner of time.

  The next morning, with my laptop under my arm and my new resume complete, I headed to my favorite downtown French café to spend the day drinking double espresso shots and browsing job listings. I hunkered down at a corner table by the edge of the window and began my new struggle to return to my role as the world’s most single career woman.

  And then, of course, when I least expected it, it happened.

  “Searching for a job?”

  I looked up and turned my head around to where the voice had come from. He was sitting behind me at another table and was obviously peering over my shoulder to look at what I was doing on my laptop.

  “Aren’t we a little nosy?” I immediately responded. “Are you trying to invade my privacy?” I added sarcastically with a devious smirk.

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry,” he said defensively. “I just glanced at your computer screen. I didn’t mean to pry. I apologize.”

  His utter politeness and old-fashioned gentleman demeanor suddenly intrigued me, considering he was the one who had boldly begun the conversation by eavesdropping on me. I turned again to take another look at him. He was dressed in a very conservative charcoal grey business suit and seemed to be a good decade older than me. He had clean-cut dark brown hair and serious dark blue eyes. He was stirring his coffee and glancing at the copy of The Wall Street Journal that he held in his other hand as he waited for my response.

  “Yes, I am looking for a job. Are you hiring?”

  He set the paper down on the table and smiled at me. When our eyes met, there was definitely something there but I just didn’t know what it was. My first impression was that he was a bit domineering but this was mixed with an attraction to his almost formal reaction to me.

  “Well, yes and no. I am hiring but it probably isn’t for the job you are seeking. What kind of work are you looking for?”

  “I’ve worked in marketing for nearly 10 years, but I got laid off a number of months ago,” I explained to him.

  “Oh, I see,” he said while he seemed to ponder what I told him. “So you have a serious career path you are already firmly set on?”

  “Well, yes…I mean I have a master’s degree and have been doing it for many years, but I am open to other offers.”

  Our eyes darted back and forth toward each other and then away again. We seemed to both be testing the waters of what exactly this conversation was about.

  “What kind of work are you hiring for?” I asked him.

  He clasped his hands together and leaned back trying to figure out what he was going to say next. I quickly became intrigued by the strange flow of the conversation and was wondering where exactly it was headed.

  “Well, I work in the defense industry but the position is more of a personal nature.”

  “Personal? Like a personal assistant?” I asked him.

  “Well…not exactly,” he said, trying to find the right words to explain to me what he was seeking. He finally just leaned forward and said it. “I’m not going to lie to you. I’m looking for the perfect housewife.”

  “A housewife?” I said, completely confused by his remark. “You are seeking to hire a housewife?”

  He smiled at my reaction. “No, I mean, not technically. It’s difficult to explain,” he said with an emotionally strained look on his face.

  Now I was starting to wonder if this man was not completely crazy and if I shouldn’t just cut the conversation short to return to my job search. Yet, there was something about the expression on his face that told me he was being sincere and so I figured I would listen to what he had to say.

  “How is it difficult to explain?”

  He cast his eyes down and then looked around to see if anyone else was listening to our conversation. He moved a bit closer toward me and lowered his voice.

  “I’m sorry but I’m not very good at this. You see, my wife passed away a few years ago. She was working with me on a defense contract in Iraq and we were attacked by insurgents while we were travelling in a convoy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I told him. It was the last thing that I expected him to tell me but it was beginning to explain his strange approach to me.

  “I haven’t dated anyone since then and I’m really not sure if I am ready to again.”

  “No, of course, I understand,” I told him warmly. “Maybe you just need a little more time.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “but enough time has passed already and I’m ready to meet someone else. There are just certain things I am looking for in a woman this time.”

  “Like
being a housewife?” I jokingly asked him just to lighten up the tone of the conversation.

  He laughed. “Well, yes. You see, not only would I not want my wife in any kind of danger again but I have three teenage sons at home who need a woman to look after them.”

  This conversation was growing more and more interesting by the second, I thought. It was certainly the last thing that I expected to happen on my first day on a search for a new job.

  “That must be tough. I mean, trying to raise three boys on your own.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You can’t imagine. Boys will be boys but they are practically grown men now. I travel a lot so I really only know about the mischief that they are up to when I get a call from a neighbor. I tried to hire a nanny but it just didn’t work out. They need a woman who is always there for them and keeps them under control.”

  “I see,” I told him while thinking about his situation. “So that’s why you are looking to hire a housewife?”

  “Well, like I said, yes and no. I’d like to meet the right woman for a relationship, but you can’t imagine how difficult it is to just go out and meet the right person.”

  I couldn’t help but smile when he told me that. I began to seriously think about his circumstances while we chatted a bit more about other things. I studied him while he talked and there was no denying that there was something about him that was very attractive. He was older than me, yes, but not too old that we could not talk about the same things. He was fantastically in-shape with broad muscular shoulders, sturdy tanned forearms and skin that only told its age from the few wrinkles that formed at the edge of his eyes when he smiled. He had that distinctive healthy-executive look that comes from having the resources to take care of oneself in the finest of ways. Yet, it was something else that was making me feel attracted to him that had nothing to do with his physical appearance. I couldn’t really place my finger on it at the moment but there was something about him that told me he was different than most men and that he had urges and desires that went to places inside him where other men preferred not to go. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but there was something in his eyes that clued me into his openness to a world of kink.