Armistice Day


I wanted to share this post again that I wrote back in 2009 for Armistice Day known now as Veteran’s Day in the United States.

On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 1918 World War I came to an end with an armistice involving nearly all the warring parties. For Mrs. Jensen she felt the deadly chill thawing when she began to hope she’d see her husband again. For two long years she’d lived in dread of the Western Union boy. Refusing to read the papers or the periodicals, she’d even walked out of the cinema to avoid the patriotic newsreels.

Three weeks later, a letter from the Army, her husband had been discharged and would be home in two weeks. For her sanity, Mrs. Jenson did nothing different, not even mark the calendar. She honestly couldn’t remember the feel of his arms around her or even the deep penetration when they made love. The other things, those she recalled with clarity.

The chuff-chuff of the special troop train gradually quieted only to be replaced by loud cheers and the local brass band playing triumphant airs. The orderly crowd quickly broke into a frenzy of yells, tears and ecstatic families finally reunited. Craning her neck, Mrs. Jenson thought she saw her husband, but waited patiently away from the maddened crush. Then, he was holding her, his lips trembling as she wept happy tears of relief.

After dinner, a repast he likened to the finest ambrosia, he took her hand and led her to their bedroom. He poured out two years of horror, despair and brutality on her acquiescent body. She found, to her surprise, responding enthusiastically to his advances. Even trying things she’d refused to do before the war as being unladylike. There was one thing she needed however.

Before they slept from passion temporarily satiated, she retrieved his leather strop, hanging where he had left it and oiled regularly by Mrs. Jenson in his absence. She removed her nightgown, another first, and eagerly bent over the bolsters. Rising once more, her husband took her again as she moaned wantonly. There was no armistice in the Jenson household. The strop rose and fell harshly on her bottom, steadily turning two years of neglect into a flaming red rear.

When he finished, she was so aroused. Needing another go, she dropped to her knees. Only on her wedding night had she allowed him to put his male part in her mouth, but Mrs. Jenson was so hot, so aflame with lust, she had to succor him: taste her essence and draw him close, draining all his nightmares while awake. When he plunged back in, close to spending, she begged for him to use her mouth when he was ready. The cold they both had lived for two years was now hot as the viscous fluid pouring down her throat.

Spanking turns her on

The Sweltering Celt runs Microfantasy Monday and this week for #54 her prompt is games.

A holiday party:
Thirty guests:
Cheesy music:
Spiked punch:
Mistletoe: with a twist:

She’d invited all her friends – those into spanking that is – with the stipulation they each bring a favorite implement of correction as the price of admission. When everyone finally straggled in she and her husband gathered them in the living room. Hanging from the ceiling fixture was a large bunch of fresh mistletoe. Underneath: a chair and a coffee table covered with a festive cloth. The rules are simple she told her friends. Please place the implements you all brought on this table. For the rest of the party, anyone standing under the mistletoe is to be spanked five times by the first person to grab them. At the nervous giggle from the crowd, she smiled. Of course you may need a round or two of punch first, but I hope by the time dinner is served, everyone will be in the proper holiday spirit. So saying, she slid under the mistletoe and waited for her husband. To her shock, the first person to grab her was her best friend Gale, a fellow submissive. Quickly sitting down, Gale drew her across her lap and picked out a leather crop. Whacking her hard five times, her friends counted and cheered when blushing, she stood up catching her husband’s eye. He shrugged and winked. Soon, all their friends were playing a game of musical chairs, the soundtrack, hard spanks and laughter. When the clock struck ten, she tapped her glass for attention. I forgot to mention. For the next thirty minutes the game has changed. Anyone standing under the mistletoe can select any other sub and spank them ten times.

How do you write a fantasy about someone you don’t know?

Microfantasy Monday is the creation of Sweltering Celt. In honor of the one year anniversary of her prompt, she asks the following:


I want you to write a microfantasy involving me this week. Sure, you don’t have to follow the theme if you don’t want, but those of you that DO follow the theme and post your microfantasy by Wednesday (hey, if I can’t post on time I can’t expect anyone else to every week!) will be entered into a little celebratory contest. The winner of the contest will have come up with the most creative, exciting, and makes-me-want-to-try-it microfantasy. (let’s say less than 500 words)

Here’s my problem. This is only the second time I’ve participated and how do I involve her when I know nothing about her?

———————————————————-

“Picking up a stranger”

Her green/blue eyes drew my attention, but her full-figure made my mouth water. She was with a group, it appeared to be two couples, but I was puzzled as to who belonged to whom. They all seemed ‘together’ in a way that bespoke of long years of intimacy and trust. She glanced up and caught my interest in the bar mirror. She smiled and winked, so quickly I almost missed the flirty look. I gulped, it was one thing to admire discretely, quite another to be confronted. She leaned over to the man next to her and murmured in his ear. Placing her napkin on the table, she gracefully rose and made her way to the rear of the restaurant.

I casually followed, lingering in the hall, waiting for her to emerge from the facilities. When she did, she studied me carefully before leaning against the wall, arms folded and head questioning. I swallowed, nervously moistening my mouth. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“I was wondering if you are single.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“But I am available, for the right fantasy. Care to take a chance?”

My eyes must have bulged because she smirked and started to move past me. Reflexively I reached out and barred her path. When she opened her mouth, to speak, to scream, I quickly covered her with my hand, her tongue slick in my palm. She struggled, not very convincingly, so I pinned one arm behind her back and pressed her against the wall. “Is this a good start?” I asked.

Her eyes widened, not with fear, but with interest. I felt her head nod under my hand, so I took that chance, and removed my fingers from her mouth. She gasped for breath, but said nothing, only writhed around my body. “Shall we return? I think your companions are probably worried.”

Returning to her table with me in tow, I was met with three pairs of interested eyes, several fairly hostile. She briefly spoke of her challenge and the eyes quickly turned amused at my expression. One of the men asked me, “So what do you plan?”

I glanced around the restaurant; it contained scattered couples and singles. “Does she often behave this badly in public with complete strangers?” When I received affirmative gestures I said, “Well then. Since she is naughty in public, she should be punished in public.”
The green-eyed vixen protested but all three of her ‘friends’ enthusiastically agreed with my suggestion. Rather than helping however, they sat back, quite relaxed and eager for the show.

I chose an unused table close by, clearing off all the settings. I pulled the stiff woman to the table, bending her over the edge and binding her hands with a napkin. Pulling her jeans down to mid-thigh, I grabbed a bread tray off a counter and prepared to punish the naughty girl. The restaurant was completely silent for the next twenty minutes: expect for the steady popping noise of wood on flesh and the plaintive cries of suffering.

Dry mouth and hot bottom

The Sweltering Celt runs Microfantasy Monday and this week for #51 her prompt is fear.

Breath rasped, muffled scrapes, her questing hands tugging at the blindfold. Rapid blinks, dim candlelight, she was surrounded by hard bodies and cruel eyes. He nodded, she obeyed, raised trembling wrists for the shackles. Dry mouth, pounding pulse, the sharp snap of leather woke her senses. Fear always the fear, which is why she begged her Master for this afternoon’s whipping.

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