Reunion
Copyright 1997-2002 by OldTom, all rights reserved.

She knew how to make an impression. She allowed herself a smile at this proof of the "Leslie Effect" as she stood framed in the doorway. She stood still, radiant, waiting. To invite him in with words would be to lose ground; his choosing to step toward her would be her gain.

He stepped in. Catching the mood, he too moved in silence, gently shutting the door. He stood before her, within reach, looking slightly down to study her eyes, her face, her mouth.

Her smile faltered as she began to tremble from the emotions warring within her. She stood her ground, knowing her surrender to be inevitable, but fighting to put it off as long as she could, for that was her way.

They both knew that they both knew. Both knew she would be trembling; there was no need for comment. Both knew how deeply she wanted to surrender; both knew how fiercely she would fight it. Body and mind in conflict.

And she was radiant.

He glanced aside to see that the chair had been set out. Yes, she had made her choice; he had left her the option of following his instruction, or not. He would know where he stood, without a word needing to be spoken.

She was radiant, and she was within reach, and it had been a long time. She stood her ground, trembling.

"Leslie. Go bend over the chair, as if for punishment. Bend over the back of the chair, hands on the seat, and hold your position until I release you. Understood?"

The acknowledgement of defeat flicked across her features as she listened to his instruction. She visibly hesitated, not from rebellion but because it was always so difficult to say those words.

She viewed her submission as a staircase to descend one step at a time, sometimes fighting her way back up, sometimes being forced further down. But mostly it was like right now, choosing to follow his lead, as they journeyed together down that staircase.

She made her decision, firmly taking her step to the next stair down. "Yes, sir. I understand."

He melted at the sound of her voice; there was a special musical quality that caught him every time she spoke. Part of the Leslie Effect. She was too caught up in her own journey to notice, perhaps; she turned and obeyed without further comment.

Her voice, too, reflected the depth of her submission. It was lower in pitch and more subdued at the moment; it would return to normal as she began to fight, argue, hold her ground.

She took up her position, dropping her radiance. Every glorious inch of her shouted her anger, her rebellion. She would cooperate because she had promised to, even when he chose to be unfair. But she had not promised to like it.

She held her position, controlling her anger because she knew she must. She kept her face down, averted, buried in her hair. She was keeping a measure of privacy to herself, for as long as she could.

He remained silent, knowing how much she hated his silence, needed his voice. His voice was their connection at such times, her anchor, her proof she was not on this journey alone.

She accepted his silence, her seething impatience uppermost, because she knew she must. She hated inaction, waiting. By doing nothing, he was controlling her, pointing out the fact of her submission. She took another step down that staircase of her mind.

He began to speak, meaningless words, granting her the connection she craved. He spoke of what had just transpired, showing how completely he understood how it must be for her. She held her position, keeping her face hidden, soaking in his voice.

She listened, learning nothing new from his words. They simply confirmed that he understood. To hear his voice after the silence, was a relief, and a comfort. He had the power to control her fears with simple words. And, as he had just shown her, he had the power of silence. She needed the connection; she would submit, just to hear his words.

The anger drained away; he did understand. She could trust. She took another step down that staircase. She was ready.

He took another chair, placing it some distance from her, to her left. He sat down, relaxing, obviously settled in to talk.

She felt herself on display, exposed, her bottom poised and waiting, for who knows how long. She realized he was pushing her as deeply as he could, and quickly. When the spanking came, it was going to hurt. She sensed her surrender to come.

She suddenly decided bent over like this, doing nothing, was just fine. So he wanted her on display? Fine. She had, after all, spent the last three hours preparing for just the right impression. She knew, all right; she knew the Leslie Effect was not entirely lost. Yet she was on display, and so she kept her face hidden, not granting him that final pleasure until he forced it from her.

There had been a time where she thought the waiting was the worst; that she would gladly take the spanking just to get it over with. Now she knew, oh my yes she knew. The spanking could wait.

Her impatience was gone, vanished with her resentment. She was glad to be merely on display, with nothing worse yet happening. She found the next step down her staircase.

"Leslie, I am going to spank you. Right?"

Her words were quiet, subdued, but clear. "Yes, sir."

"If I choose to spank you full force, bare hand on bare skin, that is probably still more than you can handle. Correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"When you are ready, I am going to spank you slowly, but hard, with just my hand. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

This was always his way, to draw it out, force her cooperation, make her say those words that were always so difficult. The import of his words began to sink in, as a delayed reaction. She knew exactly what he meant. Fear began to take hold.

He waited silently, because he understood. He watched her fear. Her voice trembled a bit as she repeated, almost in despair, "Yes sir, I understand."

Would she be in tears before they even began? Perhaps.

"Leslie, this not about punishment, or about pain. This is about control. Do you see this."

Put so baldly, it was terrible to respond. She fought the battle within herself, and finally won. "Yes, sir." She could say no more, lest she hand over the control entirely.

"I am going to spank you, hard, and I expect you to hold position. You are going to surrender to the pain, accepting it because I choose to give it. I will severely test you, so that you can prove to yourself how completely you can give over the control."

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"You want it, and you hate it. We both know this. Unless you use your safeword, I will demand your complete surrender, your complete submission. Nothing held back. You won't have a choice."

"Do you understand what I'm saying here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is this what you want?"

Her response was very quiet, as he knew it would be. "Yes sir, it is."

"When you're ready, then, hold your position but unfasten your overalls and let them drop out of the way."

She complied immediately, with no further hesitation. She returned her hands to hold her position, the overalls puddled around her ankles.

She said nothing, obviously scared, her legs shaking violently.

This was the most difficult moment for him. He was so proud of her courage, her determination. And her submission to him... well... it tore his heart open every time.

"Leslie, I want you to look at me the entire time I spank you. I want to see the pain in your face with every spank. I will have nothing less than your complete surrender, and I know that even though you hate it, you would have it no other way. Do you understand me?"

She turned to look at him, stunned in horror at what he had just required. "Yes sir, I understand."

"Will you do this?"

Her shoulders sagged for just a moment in capitulation. "Yes sir, I will do it."

"This is not a punishment, and I don't know if you will cry, or not. You might not. But I think your eyes will begin to water, both from the pain, and realizing how completely vulnerable I made you. And when the tears begin to come, you will desperately want to turn your head, to keep that one last shred of privacy.

"But you will not. You will keep your eyes on me, and let me watch, and we will both know. And in my face you will see nothing but respect, and acceptance. You fight it, but you know this to be true.

"You may move your head around to keep your neck from getting kinked up, but you must not hide your face from me. Will you promise me this?"

Hesitation. Capitulation. "Yes sir, I promise."

"Leslie. Do you truly desire this degree of surrender?"

Another step, or two, down the staircase. "Yes sir, I do."

"Then go ahead and ask me for your spanking; tell me how hard it must be, so that you can surrender."

They both knew this step was coming, but that knowledge never helped. This was the point of no return, the time of setting things in motion she was powerless to stop. She hated admitting these truths, even to herself. She hated it, and she loved it.

"Sir, I want you to spank me so hard that I have no choice but to surrender. I want you to see my face the entire time, as I will see yours."

"Leslie, does this turn you on?"

They had created their relationship for the purpose of journeying together, to explore themselves and each other, to understand their natures of dominance and submission. Thus they were free to ask each other questions about what they were experiencing.

But this particular question seemed strange at this point. Strange because it came out of nowhere, threatening to break the mood. Dangerous, even, because she so obviously was aroused, and to make a point of that was to cross into forbidden territory.

But she had placed her trust in him, and answered truthfully. "Yes, sir. Very much so." She had long since stopped shaking.

"If I were to spank you even medium-hard just now, it would just make you hotter. The way you are right now, I could put you over the edge in half a moment, and you would miss the whole point.

"If I gave you a nice spanking right now, especially if it were a bit sharper than you would prefer, you wouldn't last but a moment. Isn't that pretty much the situation?"

She grinned. "Yes sir, that's true."

"Therefore every swat I give you is going to be full force, and you're going to take it, and submit to it, and hold position no matter how much it stings. Do you understand why this is necessary?"

So that was what he had been getting at. "Yes sir, I understand." The fear returned, and she began to tremble, because she did understand. Nothing but nothing would be held back.

He came to her, and she cringed in anticipation. Her face was always so expressive. He placed his left hand on the small of her back. Not to steady her, but to increase their connection, their closeness. He understood, for to them it was a matter of closeness.

His right hand touched her bottom, gently, briefly. She moaned; she couldn't help it. It had been far too long.

She watched his face tense up, knew he intended this first swat to hurt. Seriously hurt. She hunched up inside, knowing herself to be completely defenseless. Bottom poised, she knew all too well what was coming.

All too well.

The first ringing smack came, and she held. The second came, and the third. She took it without comment, because she chose to. She took another step deeper down her staircase, and another, and another, allowing him to freely see her pain and her acceptance, holding nothing back.

The fifth swat seemed even fiercer, if that were possible. She began gasping, to contain the pain. The tenth stroke came, and still she held, desperately fighting her panic. The control was his; he could see it in her eyes.

With the twentieth swat came her surrender, her completed submission. The twenty-fourth swat brought the tears, and it was over.

The tears were his.

With her later surrender, she became a different person.

He had written Reunion when she was still free to fight her submission, and he had thus portrayed a person who, mere weeks later, no longer existed. As he came to recognize this change, Reunion came to be among his most cherished memories of she whom he had come to know so well.

Table of Contents

On to Pleasure First