    
Alex_b
Spanko
Username: Alex_b
Post Number: 57
Registered: 04-2005
| | Posted on Saturday, July 17, 2010 - 03:40 am: | 
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Some have called me a terrible sexist.
I disagree. I m most definitely a sexist,
but I’m far from terrible at it. Truth be
told, I’m a superb sexist. Rather than bore
you by chronicling my path toward chauvinism,
I offer this cautionary example of what can
result from such a distinctly male mindset.
Many years ago, I performed as the title
character in a college production of
“The Importance of Being Earnest ”.
During intermission on the final night of
the show, I escaped to the back of the theater
with a cup of tea while the other actors
gathered outside for a smoke and a chance
to loosen the lacings of their Victorian garb.
Just as I’d placed a slice of cucumber over
each eye and sat back to enjoy the quiet
of the make up room , Kathryn Stahl,
the Lady Bracknell of our production,
burst in fuming about Mischa Bloom,
who played my stage fiancé, Gwendolyn.”
“That little bitch has upstaged me for
the last time!” she hissed, tossing her
prop spectacles aside and plopping her
ample bottom onto the chair next to me.
“Well, this being closing night, I suspect
that’s true.” I replied nonchalantly,
as if still in character.
Kathryn snatched a cumber slice from
my face and began angrily munching on it.
“Oh, we’ll be in other shows together!
And I’m done letting Miss Casting Couch
steal my thunder!” With that, she pilfered
the slice from my other eyelid and poked it
into her mouth.
“We need those for the sandwiches!”
“Improvise!” Kathryn shot back.
Realizing that my alone time was done for,
I sat up and began retouching my eyebrows.
“You know damn well she didn’t sleep with
the director. I mean, come on! Frank is
gayer than Oscar Wilde!”
Unable to argue about that, Kathryn turned
and furiously dusted her cheeks with a
powder brush. “Be that as it may, she stands
in my light, steps on my lines and refuses
to put any effort into our scenes unless
she‘s speaking!”
“I know.” I agreed, sipping at my tea.
“Mischa does the same thing to everyone.
She’s a selfish prima donna. A good spanking
would sort her out.”
“Hmm!“ Kathryn harrumphed. “I’m certain
you’d miss no opportunity to lavish your
attention on her assets! You’re a rake!”
I nearly choked on my Darjeeling. “What?!”
“Not a garden variety rake. I mean-”
“I know the word!“ I said incredulously.
“A rakehell, a degenerate… an eat,
drink and be merry party animal! More to
the point, a womanizer!”
“Well, isn’t that how you’d describe you?”
“That’s hardly the point! Referring to
one’s self as a rascal makes you appear
self-deprecating. Being called one, however,
simply points out that you are, in fact,
a rascal!”
“A rascal then.”
“But you said ‘rake‘! And that hardly
seems necessary. I’d never call you a hoe!“
“I’m not the one with a soiled reputation.”
Unable to argue with her about that,
I returned to my refurbishing my brow.
“Maybe a good spanking would sort
you out, as well.” I grumbled.
I must have been too irate to notice the
silence that followed, because I was
somewhat taken aback to find Kathryn
standing at my side, a moment later.
“And how, exactly, would one go
about that?”
The evocative tone Kathryn employed
put me into some kind of primitive
automatic pilot mode. Wordlessly, I
dropped the grease pencil, took hold of
her arm and drew her across my thighs.
Only the faint rustle of taffeta could be
heard as I positioned Kathryn so that her
backside was angled more advantageously
for what was to come. I then encircled
her waist with my left arm, lifted my right
and brought it down with a loud smack
across her round, womanly cheeks.
A small gasp followed by a subtle moan
was her only reaction. I landed another
resounding swat followed by several
slightly harder ones. Still, not so much as
a whimper from Kathryn. And so I carried
on slapping her fanny, adding the occasional
pat or squeeze to her voluptuous bottom.
As the spanking progressed, I ventured so
far as to pause and slide my palm downward
until my fingers were pressed between the
contours of those shapely thighs.
Lady Bracknell’s rather thick, elaborately
decorated dress provided little opportunity
for my hand to explore, but the way in which
Kathryn lifted her head and arched her back
combined with several prolonged sighs,
made her approval of my ardent attentions
quite evident.
I had in mind to continue spanking and
stroking my impertinent costar until I’d
elicited some sort of verbal response.
Sadly, the lights dimmed for a moment,
which meant the second act was to begin
momentarily. After one last sharp smack
and a lingering caress of her nether
regions, I released Kathryn from her
precarious position. To my surprise,
the look she gave me as she stood and
straightened her costume, was not an
expression signifying, “How dare you?!”,
but one which suggested, “Who taught
you that?!”
The lights dimmed once again, leaving scant
time for reflective pleasantries, so Kathryn
simply stooped to conquer my lips with a
brief but memorable kiss before hurrying
from the room, her right hand wandering
back to stroke a freshly warmed cheek as
she exited.
As fortune would have it, the cast party
was held at Kathryn’s apartment.
Possibly under the guise of being a tad
tipsy, though she’d only had one glass of
wine, Kathryn curled up in my lap as I sat
on her crowded couch with a few fellow
cast members watching the tape of our
performance on a thirteen-inch screen.
We all laughed and especially admired the
droll manner in which we wielded Wilde’s
well-worn witticisms. After the video ended
and the others bid her farewell, our hostess
casually suggested I stay to help clean up.
As consummate thespians, we controlled our
giddiness, chatting casually about the play
while gathering up the plates and glasses.
We then stood, side by side at the sink,
teaming up to tackle the washing.
“You were wonderful tonight.“ I told her.
“As were you.”
“Thanks. It was a pleasure. Such a
lovely part.”
“You handled it beautifully.” Kathryn purred.
“Made it your own. I intend on giving you
a rave review.” she added, vigorously rubbing
a large spoon handle clean.
“Yes, well...” I said, trying not to stare.
“Thank you.”
As I slid the last dried plate into
the dish rack, Kathryn pressed her
body against mine and whispered a
phrase previously unfamiliar to me.
“Want to feed my cat a banana?”
“What?” I said. “Cats don’t eat…
Oh. I get it.”
Other things happened that night.
And again early the next morning.
Then once more, as we showered.
She used this apple scented body wash.
To this day, I'm apt to become fully
aroused by the smell of cider.
And that’s how I became comfortable
in my role as a shamelessly sexist rake.
As for Kathryn, I doubt she even
owned a cat.
THE END
"I'll love you 'til you can't sit down."
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